Scenes from a Marriage
by Serindrana
Summary: Callista is an accidental heiress and the twins Pendleton offer up their little brother to the Curnow family The plague has yet to hit Dunwall in Written as a gift for CaliforniaStop/Gigiwilkins
1. Chapter 1

_Written for CaliforniaStop/Gigiwilkins, because she's an absolute doll._

* * *

**_Scenes from a Marriage_**

**_Chapter 1_**

The Curnow estate appeared to consist of a single townhouse with scum-covered windows and an unwashed brick front. Treavor stared up at it, thinking back over what Morgan and Custis had explained to him a week ago. _It's like the worst tontine you've ever heard of_, they'd said, _but I doubt the fools thought they'd actually all _**_die_**_. Forty-seven deaths in fifteen years, and now there's only two Curnows left alive to inherit all that fortune. And only _**_one_**_ of them can actually inherit. The other's- well, the other's a true navy man, if you catch our meaning. No children there. Disinherited years ago, anyway._

The Curnows hadn't ever been nobility, exactly. And yet they were now the richest family in all of Dunwall, richer even than the Pendletons - though Morgan and Custis were loathe to admit it. Two weeks ago, Morgan and Custis had been discussing the possibility of courting her.

And then the bloody no-good disinherited uncle had made it very clear that there was one rule to getting the Curnow money:

You had to _become_ a Curnow.

It wasn't unheard of. Families with no male heirs would sometimes match their daughters with second or third sons of allied families, adopting the son into their bloodline and keeping at least one daughter from leaving the family entirely. Esma Boyle had been married in exactly the same way. But the Boyle family was the Boyle family.

The Curnows were nothing.

They had no name, no history, only a staggering sum of cash to their credit. The woman, as far as he had heard, was plain and had been raised outside of fine society, and may have even worked as a governess during her adult life. It was _shameful_.

Custis and Morgan had brokered the deal with the uncle three nights ago: Treavor would marry this Callista Curnow before the month was up. He would, supposedly, move into this hole of a place. And he would become custodian of a great deal of money that his brothers would no doubt take from him the way they'd taken half the stock of Tyvian fortified wine that their father had laid in for Treavor at his birth.

He grimaced and fixed his cuffs.

"Done gawking?" Custis drawled behind him. "You know, I think this place will suit you far better than Pendleton Manor. It's much narrower. Far more to scale."

"Shut up, Custis," Treavor muttered.

"That's no way to talk to your brother," Morgan said, drawing up beside him. They were all dressed exquisitely, but Morgan and Custis stood in sharp contrast to Treavor. They wore fine riding breeches and elegant, polished riding boots that came up to their knees. Their frock coats were carefully brushed and complemented their stronger chests and broader shoulders perfectly. In comparison, Treavor looked small and, according to Custis and Morgan on the drive over, _fussy_. _His_ coat only emphasized how narrow his ribs and waist were, and his cravat barely hid the slight sink of his chest. He'd chosen visible hose instead of boots, not knowing what his brothers would wear, and so he looked decidedly more delicate.

What did it matter? He wasn't trying to impress his bride-to-be.

Morgan struck Treavor's shoulder in a violent imitation of a brotherly supportive thump, and Treavor set his expression with stony control as he covered up his stagger forward with a few authoritative steps. There was no sense in delaying.

There was no doorman to greet them, or announce them, only a Watchman stationed outside the townhouse who knocked on the front door a few times before unlatching it and pushing it open. "They should be in there, m'lords," the man said. Treavor felt his cheeks heating with referred shame. His brothers had placed him here, but this would be _his_ family soon enough. He couldn't stand to be embarrassed by them.

The front hall was devoid of maids or even portraits or pleasant furniture. It seemed almost entirely deserted. There were visible cobwebs clinging to a few of the doorways opening off of it, and to the stairs and banister. Treavor wrinkled his nose and reached for his kerchief to cover his mouth, though the house merely smelled stale, not foul.

"Yes, I think the scale will suit him _much_ better," Morgan said, and Treavor could hear the gleeful, wicked grin in his voice.

"I am sure," Treavor said, sniffing, "that they have a country estate as well."

"_Sure_," Custis repeated, sneering. "And where would they have gotten the money for _that_, Treavor? Two years ago none of them was bringing in more than a few thousand per annum. It's a wonder they don't just live in a shack."

"Forty-seven deaths in fifteen years," Morgan said, settling his hand on Treavor's shoulder. He tried not to flinch. "Forty-seven... dearest brother, you might want to be _careful_. I'd wonder why these two are alive and nobody else is."

"Shut _up_," Treavor hissed. "If you really cared, you wouldn't be putting me in this damn situation."

"And this is how he treats our generosity," Custis said, flatly.

Treavor knew better than to fear them in public, though his heart still sped up at the implied threat. He also knew better than to trust them in private. As hot as his shame burned, it would serve him better to be magnanimous. Appreciative.

He stepped away from the two of them, and looked about for this Callista Curnow.

The large staircase - not grand in any sense of the word, but large enough for two men to walk down it abreast - stretched up along one side of the entry hall, with a balcony walkway at its top. At one end a door opened, and two people emerged, deep in conversation. One, a man, wore the uniform of the Watch, the other woman what appeared to be a simple outfit of a dull brown. The woman in brown moved with slightly hunched shoulders, and rubbed at one arm incessantly.

He looked over his shoulder. Morgan and Custis had seen them as well. "It would appear she _does_ have at least one maid, then," he said, attempting to project ease and strength in his voice. "It's not quite as bad as it looks."

Morgan snorted.

Custis smirked.

"Little brother," Morgan drawled, "_that_ would be your future wife."

* * *

Callista sat very still while her uncle poured her another cup of tea, doing her best not to fidget or, worse, reach for the pot herself. It looked ridiculous in Geoff's hands, with his broad knuckles and his scars and their callouses. But they hadn't been able to hire on a maid yet, and Geoff had stressed, firmly and repetitively, that she was to do whatever she could to _not_ come off as anything less than a noblewoman.

It was proving incredibly difficult.

Geoff set the teapot down and placed a hand that she assumed was supposed to be comforting on her shoulder. He bent down and kissed her brow, and murmured, "Be strong, Cal." Then he straightened and smoothed his coat, bowed to the lordling sitting across from her, and excused himself to the next room over, where the Pendleton twins were ready to sit and talk business.

Callista held very still. Across from her, Treavor Pendleton did the same. He was not a young man, but he wasn't an old man, either. In fact, she realized she couldn't rightly guess his age. He was older than she was, she supposed; he certainly didn't look twenty-two. He had a sort of pallid agelessness about him, in the broad expanse of his forehead and the narrow tip of his chin, his slightly bulging eyes, his receding hairline and over-wide mouth.

"Ah, so," he said, and his voice was nasally. She looked after Geoff, unable to help herself.

Treavor fell silent. Callista reached for her cup and wished there was still whiskey in the bottom of it.

She really should have been in the other room with Geoff and the elder Pendletons. _She_ held the family fortune and _she_ should have been brokering her own marriage. A disinherited uncle had no real place in that transaction, except that he had been her legal guardian for five years of her life.

It would have been a simple matter to stand up, excuse herself, and go to join the conversation.

She decided against it for the eighth time.

She had never wanted this. She remembered friends, when she was young and attending schooling provided by the Abbey, who had dreamed of waking up one day to find that they were rich society ladies. Some had even dreamed of inheritances, sudden and glorious, propelling them to respectability. She, meanwhile, had dreamed of the open ocean, of leviathans and whaling ships, and everything that was too dangerous for her. Those dreams, like the dreams of grand balls that her friends had, were beaten out of them all by the weight of reality by the time she left schooling at fourteen.

Instead of standing on the deck of a whaling ship far out towards Pandyssia, she sat in a dusty drawing room that she hadn't seen for almost a decade, trying to ignore the ghosts of a family now all burned to ash, drinking her tea and attempting to not look at her future husband.

"Miss- Curnow," Treavor tried again.

Callista took another swallow of tea. It was oversteeped and bitter, but it made her voice crack a little less when she said, "Yes?"

"Your uncle- he is a Captain in the City Watch, yes?"

She glanced up at him. He was looking vaguely over her left shoulder. "He is, yes. As he introduced himself to you."

"Of course, of course," Treavor said, half-muttering. "Is he- that is, he was disinherited, was he not?"

She bit back a grimace and set her teacup down. "He was, when I was a very little girl."

"And you are now the sole heir."

"That would be why we're both here," she said, straightening a little. "May I ask your point?"

He reached up to adjust his cravat, gaze flicking to meet hers, then down and away. "I am surprised you didn't simply- reinstate his place in the family lineage. It might have spared us- _you_ a great deal of trouble."

"I asked. My uncle refused. He knows that he has... no intention of bringing heirs into the family, in any way," she said, looking down at her cup. "He decided that to bring him back into the inheritance would confuse matters more, because he would supercede me and likely only pass the inheritance on to me in my old age. Besides, his salary as a Captain pays him quite well enough."

"Ah," Treavor said. "I see."

Silence fell again. In the other room, she could hear the twins laughing, and she couldn't tell if it was pleasant laughter or deeply unsettling snickering. She worried that she might have said too much, about her uncle's confirmed bachelorhood, but there was no other way to explain it.

"Have you- lived in Dunwall all your life, Miss Curnow?" Treavor said, voice sounding slightly more strained.

Callista set her cup aside and rose from her chair, walking over towards the windows so that she wouldn't have to control her expressions as tightly. "I have, yes."

"In this house?"

She could hear the disbelief and faint distaste in his voice. He was either bad at hiding it - unlikely - or he saw no reason to.

"When I was younger, yes," she said. "It belonged to my grandfather. We had three generations in this house. But that... changed, as I'm sure you're aware."

"And where have you been living, for the last few years?"

The chair Treavor had been sitting in creaked, and she closed her eyes with a grimace as she heard him stepping closer.

"Near the Legal District," she said, trying to choose her words wisely. "In an apartment I kept by myself."

"By yourself? No maids?"

"No, I- no."

"Surely you could have afforded-"

"It took several years for all the wills to be reconciled," she said, beginning to hunch in on herself protectively. "There was a great tangle, with so many deaths so close together. I didn't receive the inheritance until a few months ago."

"And yet you didn't live with your uncle?"

She turned on her heel, then, crossing her arms over her chest, fighting the urge to hug herself.

"Perhaps I will interrogate _you_, next," she said, tersely.

He blinked at her, mouth open for half a second before he looked away, clearing his throat and straightening his frock coat. "I meant no disrespect. I simply... wanted to get- to know you. I suppose. You're a mystery."

She eyed him a moment longer, then turned away again, reaching out to settle a hand on the grimy window. "Not much of one. Our family is just unlucky."

"And very lucky, at the exact same time. Or you are, at any rate. Miss Curnow-"

"Please," she interrupted, "I don't want to talk to you. You might as well join the business meeting in the next room."

"I don't particularly want to broker the loss of my family name," Treavor said - spat, really. "Besides, my brothers would hardly have me."

"And so you'll talk to the woman who's _taking_ that name from you?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. "You're free to go, you know. I'm not so desperate for a match. We won't keep you if you try to run." The bitterness crept into her voice, the words hissing from her lips. She watched him flinch, and refused to feel bad.

He didn't understand. He complained about his name, but he had a family still living, a history and a future. His nieces and nephews would continue on his bloodline. But the Curnows-

Their future rested in the potential nestled between her legs.

She wasn't _so_ desperate, but there was still a limited period of time to find a man who would be willing to give up his family name and likely his inheritance to take on hers, who would also be of appropriate standing to match her newfound wealth.

He stared at her a moment longer, and then he cursed below his breath and turned away, stalking back to his seat. He stood by it for a long moment, hand curling on the back of the chair, fingers digging into the old upholstery.

"Do you have anything to drink?" he asked at last.

Her lips curled faintly, and she ducked her head with a faint, tired laugh.

"Oh," she said. "Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_**

The wedding happened three weeks after their first meeting. They sat and attempted to speak twice more in that time, and each time the townhouse was a little cleaner and their tea had a little more whiskey in it. Treavor never once invited her to Pendleton manor, too worried about rubbing her face in the history and presence that her lineage simply didn't have-

And too nervous about his own place there.

His brothers seemed far too elated at the idea that Treavor would, in less than an hour, no longer be a Pendleton. They had made sure he overheard their plans to get his chambers and his library and replace them with a series of smoking rooms. Smoking rooms! It was galling. His chambers weren't the lavish affairs of his brothers', but they were still rooms passed down through the Pendleton line. His uncle had lived there as a child. And now his brothers sat and discussed turning it into - and he was frank with himself, if not with them or with Wallace - a guest room for their various whores.

He wrinkled his nose and looked about for his wine. They had also made it very clear to him that he was expected to _invest_ his new money, quite _heavily_ and entirely into their mines, but Treavor was not the idiot they seemed to take him for. He was by and large kept out of that bit of family business, but he had eyes and ears. He knew that the mine was beginning to run dry. In a few more years, there wouldn't be any silver left at all, regardless of the twins' profligacy.

Really, the Pendleton line was doomed. It was a blessing to escape it. It was a blessing to escape his _brothers_. And yet-

And yet he had never been anything less than a lord, or less than a Pendleton, and in an hour he would no longer be either.

He stared at himself in the mirror and fidgeted with his cuffs. He was dressed in fine wool and finer silk from the few Serkonan islands far enough south to grow the mulberry bushes necessary for it. The line of his waistcoat was finely tailored, making him look poised instead of simply narrow. His shoes were polished leather, his cufflinks gold and gemstones. His cravat pin was a gleaming ruby. Wallace had made sure the maids used the good pomade on his hair, and he'd even consented to just a touch of rouge on his cheeks to make him look a little healthier.

And yet the effect made him look like a stranger. He growled and looked for his cup again, then stalked over to his desk to take it up and drain it.

He had never once invited Miss Curnow to the manor, except for the wedding. She was currently downstairs in what had been his mother's room, being helped by the two maids she had finally hired. What she would wear, he had no idea. Hopefully she'd been to Draper's Row, at the very least. And perhaps her maids would know how to paint her face, and set her hair, and she would look a little bit less like a Watchman's niece.

The door to his room opened, and Wallace entered, holding Treavor's best coat. He'd brushed it to perfection. Treavor began to cross the room to him, but Wallace fixed him with a pointed look.

Treavor glanced at the empty glass he held, cleared his throat, and set it aside. "It's the second of the night, Wallace," he said, holding out his arms for the coat sleeves. "Hardly excessive."

"Of course not, m'lord," Wallace said, helping Treavor into the garment and settling it carefully on his shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

"Wretched," Treavor said, wrinkling his nose. "This whole affair is wretched, from start to finish. I suppose, though, that at least I'll be away from my brothers."

"Very true, sir," Wallace said, turning Treavor around and tugging at his clothing until it was in perfect alignment. "And you will have a wife, and soon children."

"And I will no longer be a _Pendleton_," he reminded the manservant. "And neither will those children." Wallace hummed low in his throat in response. "All that dignity, wiped away. To be what? A rich _Curnow_. Nobody's ever heard of them."

"It is true," Wallace said, speaking slowly in the way that meant he was carefully considering his thoughts, a habit that Treavor thoroughly appreciated, "that you will lose your father's name. But you will not lose his blood. And you will, I am sure, make the Curnow name powerful."

"But it's not the _Pendleton_ name."

"No," Wallace said, a touch of bitterness in his voice, "it's not."

"I will understand if you choose not to follow me, into this unknown country," Treavor said, pulling free of Wallace's careful touch and turning to the mirror again. "I certainly wouldn't."

Wallace was silent as he reached for a brush to fix a slight deviation in the nap of his coat.

"But I hope that you will," Treavor added.

"Of course m'lord," Wallace said.

"One more hour, and it will just be _sir_, I suppose. If anything. Outsider's eyes, this whole thing is-"

"Would you like some more wine, m'lord? While the hour is young?"

Treavor stared at Wallace's reflection, focused wholly on him. Then he looked to his own face, flushed, and his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths he had barely noticed he was taking. He had to calm down. He had to calm down, or this would be even more of a disaster than it already was.

"Make it brandy," he said, not moving from in front of the mirror.

* * *

Callista waited in the great ballroom, standing on her side of the small table laden with wine, bones, and gold. Geoff should have been standing beside her, but, despite his role in brokering the marriage, he _had_ been disinherited. It wasn't as strong a censure as disownment, but he couldn't rightfully take his place as guardian in front of this crowd, no matter how close he was to her, how dear.

Her only company was an Overseer who stood maybe ten paces away, with his hideous mask and his unknowable gaze. The thought did not bring her joy.

And so she stood apart, waiting for the Pendletons to enter.

To her understanding, the twins would walk their younger brother to the table. Then she and Treavor Pendleton would give each other wine. Traditionally, she would have also offered wine to her new family; as it was, Treavor could only offer wine to her deceased parents. Then they would break a few token fish bones to deny the Outsider a way into their marriage. The Overseer would recite the scriptures, and they would repeat them. They would place gold from their respective coffers into a dish to represent the union of their finances, and sign the piece of paper prepared by one of the barristers her uncle knew, and it would be rushed with all haste to the nearest unbiased representative of the Empire (who, to her understanding, was in the next room over having a coffee).

And then there would be drinking and feasting with all the nobles of Dunwall who had come out to see Treavor Pendleton's humiliating grab for financial security.

Perhaps she could drink the wine now, before the Pendletons arrived. Her skin crawled under the gazes of a hundred people she did not know and did not care to know. They looked at her in her velvet marriage suit, with her hair piled somewhat artfully atop her head but with none of the same fine details of theirs. She had no heirloom jewels to wear, and her clothing, while finely tailored, was not designed with her in mind.

She knew the whole scene was a farce, and she wished, not for the first time, that they had simply exchanged their vows and done the paperwork in the townhouse, without this audience. But until the ceremony was over, Treavor was still a Pendleton, and there were certain-

_Expectations_.

At the far end of the hall, the low murmur of voices hushed. The great doors already hung open, and she peered out into the room beyond. She watched as the three figures approached: Morgan and Custis on either side, Treavor leading the way. Behind her, the Overseer stepped closer to the table. She watched, transfixed, as the men made their way up the long hall.

Treavor looked- healthier than he had. His cheeks seemed rosier. He also appeared to waver on his feet. As she watched, she thought she saw one of the twins push him a little too firmly forward, and Treavor stumbled, then caught himself. He turned to glare over his shoulder, but kept walking forward.

And then he looked at her, and her heart seemed to seize in her chest. He had a look of the most profound horror and sadness on his face, and she began to look away, unable to bear it. Here, in the hall of his family, she would take his name from him. She would reduce him to a commoner. _She_ knew that it wasn't such a bad thing to be, but to him, what could it be but a nightmare?

Treavor grew pale as he approached, his cheeks red only in two spots, as if he were wearing rouge. She turned back to him, brow creasing. As she watched, his expression went from horrified to slack. His lips moved soundlessly.

He dropped to his knees, collapsing in place, and began to shake.

Morgan's face grew red with fury, and for a moment, Callista thought he would kick the prone figure of his brother. Custis's expression twisted with disgust. The entire room went silent, except for the drag of Treavor's perfect clothing over the polished floor. Callista stared, transfixed.

_My husband_, she thought.

Nobody approached him. Nobody _cared_.

With a soft, helpless sound, Callista crossed the floor to him, gaze fixed on his shaking, seizing form. Was he dying? Had he poisoned himself? Had he done this to avoid marrying her? Her gaze flicked up to Morgan, to Custis. Both had their backs to her, their heads bowed together in conference. There was no trace of concern on their brows. They would not help.

Slowly, she dropped to one knee.

"Where's Higgins?" Custis finally shouted as Callista touched Treavor's forehead. It was sweaty. He was unresponsive, only spasming in some kind of terrible rhythm. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and she bit her lip in frustration.

She heard footsteps, and then somebody else was crouched by her. She recognized him distantly as Treavor's manservant. She watched as he rolled Pendleton onto his side.

"It will be over soon," he said. She wasn't sure who he was addressing.

Distantly, she heard Morgan curse, saying something about how his brother's seizure was disgusting, shameful. She closed her eyes, and tried to breathe. With her eyes closed, the sounds of the room were amplified: the awkward shifting of the still-watching crowd, Morgan and Custis's pacing - now rapidly retreating as they left the room, and Treavor's quick, uneven breathing and the twitching of his limbs.

She listened to the shuffle of feet and the murmur of voices as the guests began to filter out of the room. There were footsteps, sharp and loud behind her. She opened her eyes and looked up, hoping to see Geoff.

Instead, the Overseer stared down at her.

"I have Holger's device in another room," he said, his voice warped by the mask. "Is there any reason to suspect that-"

"None," the manservant interrupted. "It's an ongoing medical issue."

"Your help will not be needed," Callista confirmed, her voice sounding very far away.

"Will the wedding proceed, once he recovers?"

Callista looked down at Treavor, who had now gone still except for slow, even breathing, as if he were asleep.

"I don't know," she said.

* * *

"An _ongoing medical issue_? You blighted bastard, you idiot! She was _right there_!"

Morgan's voice was shrill on the other side of the door, and Treavor hunched away from it reflexively. His throat and mouth still felt thick, his head fuzzy. The brandy in his hand wasn't helping much, and he stared at the glass, then set it aside. The glass rattled against the table until he let go of it.

"My lord?" Callista asked, and he looked up at her, reluctantly. Her face was pained, worried. She'd been there when he came to, with that exact same expression. _Worried_. Worried about him, or their marriage? She'd probably walk before the night was through. He groaned and sank deeper into his chair.

"I'll be fine," he rasped, his words faintly slurred. He'd bitten his tongue during the fit, and it was swollen now. He grimaced and looked at the brandy again. It wouldn't _help_, necessarily, but it certainly couldn't hurt much more.

From the other side of the door, the abuse continued. Treavor pictured Wallace standing there, weathering it silently, and hoped that Morgan wouldn't get his crop or begin to strike the man. He rarely did; Wallace was, in many ways, untouchable.

"Does this happen often?" Callista asked, from where she sat primly in her own chair. She glanced worriedly at the door as Morgan's voice rose to a crescendo, shouting things about _appearances_ and _the wedding_ and _Treavor's damned weaknesses_.

"Only- when I'm very stressed," Treavor said after a moment, as his wince faded. "Perhaps three or four times a year. More, in a bad year." He stared at the door. "More when I have to work closely with- my brothers." He swallowed, thickly, and reached for his brandy. Before he could take hold of it, though, Callista was on her feet and had pressed her hand over his. She'd removed her gloves at some point. He looked up at her pinched, narrow face, thinking distantly _She could have been my wife_.

"Is it appropriate to drink, after a fit?"

He flinched at the word. "It's never been a problem before. Usually I attempt to- to keep them from happening at all. Drink makes me less stressed. Less stress, fewer fits."

"Of course," she said, and removed her hand from his.

"It's not," he said, clearing his throat and lifting the cup, the contents sloshing faintly from his shaking, "an issue with the _blood_, as far as I can tell. My brothers do not suffer from it. My father did not, my mother did not."

She watched him a moment longer, then went to the sideboard to pour _herself_ a drink. "If it's not the blood-"

"I sustained, ah, _injuries_, in my youth," he said, then took a long swallow of brandy. The sweet burn of it helped him avoid thoughts of his childhood, or even of the hunting trip a few months prior, when Morgan had _accidentally_ shot him. "Our physician thinks- or thought, he is no longer with us- that those injuries may have, ah, predisposed me. But I will- I will understand, if you decide that you would no longer like to..."

He drifted off, gaze back on the door to the rest of the house. He should have been _happy_, that he'd found a very acceptable way out of the marriage. Even with the humiliation of collapsing in front of everybody - in front of _Waverly Boyle_, no doubt - it still provided an acceptable way for the marriage to be dissolved. He would be shamed for a year or two, of course; it was he who would be found unfit for marriage. But he would remain a Pendleton.

He would remain in this house.

He would remain with Morgan and Custis.

His expression darkened. They would abuse him mercilessly for this. The mockery would be nothing compared to their anger at him losing the Curnow fortune. If Callista Curnow turned him down-

"You're certain it's not in the blood?" she asked, drawing him back. He turned his head, fighting his dizziness, to see her leaning against the sideboard, her glass cupped in both hands. She stared down at it. "You will understand," she continued, "that one of the- major goals of this alliance, from my perspective, is the- the production of healthy children." Her voice caught and stammered, and beneath her powders and paints that made her look slightly more well-nourished and less exhausted he thought he could see her blush. "Your social standing is of secondary importance, and only serves to appropriately ground my inheritance. It's the idea of _offspring_ that- that-"

"It's not in the blood," he said, feeling awkward and hollow at the pain and grief flashing over Callista's face. "But certainly there is- there is somebody else more suited to, ah, to producing _hearty_ children. Somebody that you would like more."

She looked up, as if startled. "I'm not sure I would like anybody else more or less," she said. "My family is dead. I am alone with a great fortune I have no idea what to do with. I need to marry a man who is willing to give up his family name, so that _my_ family does not die with me. Affection is- not something plausible."

Carefully, concentrating until his brow furrowed, Treavor set aside his glass and rose from his chair. Callista moved to help him, but he waved her off, pacing closer until he, too, could lean on the sideboard. Trembling, he sought her hand. She let him take it.

"I know that it's not your choice to marry me," Callista said, softly. "That I'm taking from you a grand and respected name, that I'm making you live, at least for a while, in a run-down townhouse without the amenities you're used to. You _can_ walk away."

"And here I was, trying to remind you of the same thing," he said with a weak laugh, unable to meet her eyes. "That my _fits_ give you a perfect excuse to leave, because I know that it's not your choice to marry _me_, either."

"We make a fine pair," Callista agreed, then looked away and drained her glass.

He wished he hadn't abandoned his own.

"Are there no other second sons of appropriate standing?" Treavor asked, softly.

"None that will have me, or are old enough to have me. The few whose families we might be able to convince are ten and under, more suited to be my stu-" She caught herself, flushing and pulling her hand away.

"Students?" he asked, leaning in. "It's true, then? That you were a governess? My brothers mentioned- I thought they were joking-"

She cleared her throat. "They weren't joking," she said, voice tight and controlled.

He flinched at it. "That's not- I don't _mind_. It's better than- than-"

There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by Morgan's voice: "Oh, dear _brother_, are you well now?"

Panic flared in him despite his exhaustion. He looked to Callista. She looked back, gripping her empty glass tightly.

"I will have you," he said, hurriedly, "if you will have _me_, in turn."

She didn't move for what seemed like an eternity. The door handle began to turn.

And then she nodded. "I will have you."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3_**

The wedding went forward. They were married only two hours after the first attempt, breaking their fish bones and exchanging their coin and signing the marriage documents before handing them over to the Empress's representative. Then there was dinner in the great dining hall of Pendleton Manor.

Callista and Treavor sat at the head of the table.

From the way Treavor's gaze darted around frantically, Callista suspected this was a rare occurrence.

She was seated, blessedly, next to Geoff; it kept her free of any conversations with any of the guests who she often caught watching her. She bent her head to his and they talked of light things, and he clasped her shoulder and told her that she was beautiful. He didn't say that Treavor Pendleton was not the husband she deserved, and she didn't say that she had given up hope for anything better.

Once or twice, Treavor's hand sought hers under the table. He would touch one or two clammy fingertips to the back of her hand, and she would turn her hand over so the palm faced up. He'd hesitate, then quickly squeeze her fingers, then retreat.

He was bearing the worst of it. She watched him as he greeted guests, received their congratulations, and weathered their polite jabs at his fit, at his wife, at his new last name. _Treavor Curnow_. She could see how he chafed under it. And yet, when his brothers came to wish the happy couple a fruitful new life, Treavor rose from his seat and stood tall.

Callista, leaving her uncle behind, stood with him.

The twins veiled their cruel amusement with practiced politeness. Morgan thanked her for being so _understanding_ and _forgiving_ of their brother's many flaws. Custis suggested that, when the dust had settled, they perhaps all go hunting. She would have thought the latter a serious invitation, except that Treavor tensed and tersely declined.

When the twins retreated, Callista and Treavor sank into their chairs once more. She reached for his hand, but he already had it around his glass.

Between the two of them, Callista and Treavor had finished two bottles of Tyvian red by the time the night came to a close. Geoff led a toast; the room responded in equal parts drunken merriness and aristocratic snideness. When it was over, Callista and Treavor were led outside and ushered into the waiting railcar, to be taken to the townhouse that would be their home.

To be taken to their wedding chamber.

Before the door even shut, Treavor was reaching for a side compartment that, when opened, revealed a faint rat lamp and several bottles of brandy. He pulled one out; it was only a third full.

At his wrinkled nose, she said, "Was it full the last time you looked?"

"I think my brothers switched it out," he responded, then sighed and pulled two glasses from the compartment as well. "What do you say," he continued as he poured them each a sloshing glassful, the car jolting into motion beneath them, "to another toast. Just you and me this time. It'll be- it'll be _our_ toast."

He set the bottle aside. She took her glass and held it up, watching him curiously.

"To us," he said, or slurred, and leaned forward to clink his glass with hers. "To- to a nice marriage without my brothers and with- with a lot of _children_."

"To us," she echoed, unable to help her quick smile at how he butchered their earlier conversation, distilling it down to its strangest components. At least, she supposed, he hadn't made a joke about _having_ one another.

Her mind went to the wedding chamber again, and she downed her glass, quickly.

By the time they reached the townhouse, Callista was adrift in an exhausted, drunken haze, and Treavor was beginning to stumble. She followed him from the car, sedately, and knocked at the door. Inside, her newly-hired doorman slid open the small slit to check that it was her, then opened the door with a quiet, "Mrs. Curnow. Mr. Curnow."

Treavor drew himself up like an indignant pigeon and glared, then exhaled with a shaky giggle. "Mr. Curnow," he mumbled to himself then reached for the inside of his jacket and-

"You have a _flask_?" she asked, incredulously, as they stepped just far enough inside for the doorman to close the door behind them.

"Wallace filled it for me before- _Wallace!_" Treavor shouted, and turned about in place. His brow creased. "Wallace, where are you? _Wallace_!"

"I think- I think he's still coming. I think he's coming from Pendleton manor. He's not here yet." She stepped a little closer and touched his elbow. "Is something the matter?" For a moment, she looked at him as if she were a concerned governess and he was the master of the house, returned from a day spent at one of his clubs, before she remembered that no, she was this man's _wife_.

She wasn't sure how, exactly, a wife would act in this situation.

"Still coming," Treavor mumbled, then looked down at her hand on his elbow. Then he looked up to her face. He squinted at her. "_Mister and Misses Curnow_," he enunciated, slowly.

She nodded. "I'm afraid so."

He looked at her a moment longer, then turned and hollered, "_Wallace!_" at the top of his lungs again.

She groaned and put a hand on the small of his back and urged him forward. "My- _our_ bedroom is upstairs," she informed him. "We have- we have _duties_. Tonight. Wallace will be here by morning."

He craned his head to look at her again, and he let her move him for a few paces, then stopped. "You're my _wife_," he said.

She nodded.

"Really. You said _yes_."

"I said yes," she assured him. The brandy had given her a lovely sort of detachment, and had stilled most of her nerves. It allowed her to give him another push, and to usher him up the stairs and towards her- _their_ bedroom.

The entire townhouse was clean, now, and well-appointed, but the bedroom and the library had received the most attention. She hadn't slept in it since it was redecorated; she'd stayed in a smaller room down the hall. Now, with Treavor stumbling in ahead of her, she stood in the doorway, swaying in place, and wondered (not for the first time, not for the last) how long it would be before she woke up from this- this-

She still wasn't sure if it was a dream or a nightmare.

She wanted a whaling ship, not fine Pandyssian-wood furniture, Serkonan-silk sheets, and gilded bits and bobs to try to make the room look like it had history.

Treavor dropped onto one edge of the bed and began tugging at his cravat. He opened his mouth, no doubt to call for his manservant again, and Callista crossed the room, fell onto all fours on her side of the bed, and reached across to cover his mouth.

"He's not _here_," she reminded him.

Treavor said nothing, his breath warm and wet against her palm. She shivered. And then she scooted closer and sat back on her heels, beginning the work of undressing him down to his shirtsleeves.

"You're shaking," he said as she slid his coat from his shoulders.

She paused and looked down at her hands. They trembled fiercely. When she looked back up, he was watching her, working his mouth as if he would say something.

"I should- I should probably- is it time to kiss you?" he asked at last, and then cleared his throat. "That is to say- it seems appropriate-"

Callista made a wordless noise, then set his coat aside and climbed off the bed. She disappeared behind a carved wooden screen where her nightclothes were hung, ready for her. She was panting, she realized, heart beating fast.

"Ah- m-maybe once we're ready for bed," she said.

He hadn't kissed her once in their whole awkward courtship. Now the thought made her want to run. It was as if the breaking of fish bones hadn't been _real_, but the simple act of touching their lips together meant everything.

She fumbled with the clasps on her jacket, barely listening to Treavor beyond the screen. He had stood up, guessing from the creak of the bed. Soon he'd be down to _his_ sleeping clothing (had he brought any? Oh, Outsider's eyes, she hadn't even thought to arrange- did he have another jacket, another pair of knickers? Or did that all arrive in the morning, to ensure that at least one of them would be naked through their wedding night?) and she'd be down to hers and they'd climb into bed together and he'd _touch_ her, more than clasped hands, and- and-

And for the last five years, as the few remaining members of her family had died off and she had begun a life separate from her uncle, she had been desperately touch-starved. She hardly knew what it was to hold hands anymore, let alone be hugged tight, let _alone_ be kissed and gripped and fondled.

Her cheeks were bright red. Her head felt like it was spinning. Distantly, she heard the clink of glasses.

That's right- she'd had the maids put a bottle of Serkonan effervescent cider in the room. Maybe- maybe that would help her nerves.

She fumbled with the laces of her corset, wishing she'd asked one of the maids to come in and help, then immediately thanking everything good that she hadn't. This had to be done alone. In private. She shed the fine garment of coutil and baleen, better tailored to her than any corset she'd owned in her entire life before the last month, and made short, if haphazard, work of her breeches and knickers and shoes and stockings, of her undershirt, of her hair. She let it fall in thin curls around her shoulders as she wriggled into her nightdress, and then she cleared her throat.

"Did- did you pour a drink for me?"

There was no answer.

Callista stepped out from behind the screen to find Treavor passed out in their bed, barely out of his waistcoat, one shoe still on. Two glasses of cider sat on the small table to the bed's left. She eyed them, desperately, before hurrying over to his side and bending to check his pulse.

It was steady and even; he was only asleep. Drunk, and asleep.

After downing both glasses, she crouched by Treavor's bedside and finished the work of stripping him to his knickers and undershirt. Then she settled him more firmly in bed, snuffed the lamps, and climbed in beside him.

She stared up at the ceiling, illuminated only by the streetlights outside her window.

She was Mrs. Curnow, wife to Treavor Curnow, heir to one of the largest fortunes in Dunwall.

And she hadn't so much as been kissed on her wedding night.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4_**

When Treavor woke up, he wasn't entirely sure where he was. All he knew was that he was overdressed and dreadfully hungover - and that he hadn't vomited all over himself. Given the state his head was in, he rather thought that was a success.

With a groan, he rolled over, opened his mouth to call for Wallace, and stopped cold.

Callista Curnow was lying next to him, below the covers, nestled into a fine silk pillow with her hair messily curled about her head.

Right. The wedding.

_The wedding_.

He'd had a fit; even if he didn't remember the deep shame of it, and the conversation that had followed on its heels, he would've been able to tell from his swollen tongue and the particular patterns his thoughts were running in. He'd had a fit, Callista Curnow had agreed to marry him anyway, they had completed the ceremony, they'd had dinner, and then...

Things became a blur. He remembered, vaguely, the feel of her hands on his shoulders, on his chest, but it wasn't like the girls at the Cat. No, he'd been clothed. She'd been... undressing him? But in a very perfunctory way. Like undressing a child.

And at some point she'd left, and she'd been gone a very long time, and he'd fallen asleep.

He stared at her, then grimaced and turned away from her, dragging himself out of bed. He bypassed the open bottle of cider and staggered instead to the bathroom. He closed the door tightly behind him before unfastening his knickers and relieving himself, and tried not to think about how incredibly _humiliating_ it would be when Callista woke up and they both looked at each other and _knew_ that they'd already completely failed in their- their- their _conjugal_ duties.

It really shouldn't have been any different than the times he went to the Cat, or the few times he'd fooled around with maids (before he'd learned - painfully - what happened when his brothers found out or, worse, _sent_ the maids to him), except that Callista was his wife.

He barely knew how to touch her.

With another groan, he staggered to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face. He looked up into the finely polished mirror, then grimaced and looked down again. The rouge on his cheeks had smeared awkwardly, and his pomaded hair now stuck up in a hundred different directions. He looked pale and a bit green.

Wallace would know what to do. And Callista must have set up a private room for him, to be attended to in. The single bedroom was far too small for everything that had to go on in private.

But when he emerged into the bedroom, there was only the one other door, and a bank of windows looking out over the boulevard below. There wasn't even a balcony.

He spared Callista's sleeping form one more glance, then moved to the other door, opened it, and peeked out into the hall.

It was empty.

Shouting for Wallace would no doubt rouse Callista. Still, the manservant had to be somewhere in the house, and there were only, what, two maids and a doorman so far who could chance to see him? He considered briefly going back for his wedding togs, then gave up on it; that would be just as obvious and damning.

He could count on one hand the number of times that he had walked out of his rooms at Pendleton manor so undressed, but he pushed through the embarrassment. It was the morning after his wedding; it was bound to be strange. He was a new man.

He was-

He was Treavor Curnow.

His bare feet padded on the carpet runner, until the hallway opened up onto a larger room, with the walls lined with a few bookshelves and several display cases. There was a great desk at the far end. Not suited to be a meeting room, given the proximity to his- _their_ bedroom, but a nice work room. And there, where the runner ended, was another door. He came to it, opened it just a fraction, and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Wallace turn towards him.

"_There_ you are," Treavor said. "Well, come on. Did you at least bring my valise over?"

"Yes, that and some coffee." Wallace grabbed up the leather case, and Treavor stepped back from the door so the man could come in. "Is Mrs. Curnow awake yet?"

Treavor shook his head. "No, ah, not yet. We both had perhaps a little much to drink last night. I think it took her at least half an hour to change into her bedclothes. I fell asleep waiting."

Wallace quirked a brow.

Treavor flushed. "We- we didn't exactly-"

"Of course, m'l- sir."

Treavor winced. Wallace hefted the valise.

"Shall I get your shaving kit ready?" Wallace asked.

Pursing his lips, Treavor glanced over his shoulder towards the bedroom. "Ah," he said, "there's a bit of a problem with that. There isn't a separate dressing room. For either of us. It's just this room, the bedroom, and a bathroom. There isn't even a separate garderobe, if you can believe it."

Wallace grimaced. "Perhaps," he said, "you might consider taking a separate room for your use. You would not be the first. At least until affairs are in order and you take over a property in the Estate District again."

"Perhaps," Treavor murmured, rubbing at his chin. Stubble scraped at his fingertips. Wallace was optimistic about his chances at being let into a fine manor again, and he supposed he should be, as well. He was wealthy now. _Very_ wealthy. As wealthy as he was born to be. There was only the matter of the title, the abode, and the-

The wife.

He glanced back at the bedroom door.

"Scout out a room for me, then," he sighed. "I'm not about to go wandering around in my underthings more than I have to."

"Of course, sir," Wallace said, and inclined his head just the right amount for a wealthy businessman who had no title.

Treavor tried not to grimace as he watched his man retreat.

* * *

Callista woke to an empty bed. It took her until she was halfway to the toilet before she realized why, exactly, that was strange. Then she doubled back, and stared down at the mess of blankets.

She could see only a faint indentation where Treavor's head had been.

As she took care of washing up and dressing for the day, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or frustrated that he hadn't woken her up at some point to make a second attempt at their wedding night. He was surely out of the house now, given the high angle of the sun through the window. Perhaps he was overseeing the move of his possessions to their home, though she assumed she would have heard banging and maybe a shout or two for Wallace if that were the case.

At any rate, by nightfall he would be back, and they would try again.

She was halfway through tightening her corset when she remembered that she had maids employed to help her with this sort of thing now. But it was already mostly finished, and she sighed and finished the job herself. There were a great deal too many things to get used to now. The rooms were less cramped, the food was different and didn't come from a can, and she had to think of Treavor taking her to bed that night as something completely ordinary. Otherwise, she'd fret about it all day long.

She was already fretting about it. She fastened her jacket up and smoothed it over the fine lines of her corset, then checked her reflection quickly before opening the door to her chamber.

The study beyond was empty. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but the emptiness felt like a dull blow. It would have been nice if Geoff had been waiting for her. Nice, too, she supposed, if Treavor had been sitting at the desk, making himself at home. She could have lingered, then, before going out to face the day.

Instead, she hurried to the outer door and into the main hall with its balcony looking down into the entryway. She looked around, and caught sight of the doorman, sitting near his post, playing solitaire at a small table. The maids were missing. A few new items sat in the foyer; valises and a few crates, a painting and a small chest of drawers. The move was already in progress, then.

Her footsteps sounded frighteningly loud as she descended the stairs. Her doorman looked up.

"Good morning, Creighton," she said, coming close enough for polite conversation. "Is, ah- has my husband stepped out for the day, do you know?"

"No, ma'am," he said, not so much as hesitating or stumbling on a residual _Miss Curnow_. "He said he was waiting for you to come down, so that you could have breakfast together."

She could feel herself beginning to flush. "How, ah, long ago did he say that?"

Creighton said nothing, then twisted in his seat and looked at the old grandfather clock by the first set of steps. "Mm, near on two hours ago, ma'am."

"And he's still waiting?"

"As far as I know. He's in the first floor library."

"Alright. Thank you. We're not expecting any visitors today, so feel free to take breaks, should you need them," she said, a little embarrassment and a little kindness tinging her voice. A few months ago, she'd been almost at his social level. Almost; a governess and the daughter of a Watch captain was more respected than a doorman, but only barely.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, ma'am, it's the day after your wedding. You're going to get visitors. Or _he_ will, anyway. He's already gotten a few letters."

Callista blinked. "Oh," she said. She was grateful she'd donned her other nice set of clothing, a wool suit in shades of blue and grey. She'd look more or less presentable, though she'd have to go back and ask a maid to set her hair instead of doing it herself. "Well, thank you Creighton."

"Of course, ma'am. Congratulations, by the way."

_On what_? she almost asked. _On having the most awkward marriage of the century? On tying my future and my fortune to a man stripped of his nobility who has convulsive fits when he is stressed, and who I couldn't bring myself to touch on our wedding night_?

Instead, she managed a small smile and said, "Thank you, Creighton." And then she turned.

To the library, then, or the dining room? She settled on the latter, too nervous to go to Treavor correctly. She slipped into the dining room, which was set out with plates and fruits but no hot food, then went to the door that sectioned off the kitchen. She knocked, then pushed it open.

The cook and one of the maids looked up, startled.

She cleared her throat. "Could you set out breakfast, and let my husband know that he can dine at his leisure now?"

"Yes, ma'am," the maid said. The cook only quirked a brow, then turned back to her work. Callista retreated from the kitchen.

_That_ was not her world now, either. She'd never again have to feed herself at night. There would be no street food vendors anymore, the practice too unseemly for a lady of money. She sighed and took a seat.

The maid came and went, bringing plates of warm fruit pastries, some smoked fish, a loaf of warm bread, and a small, steaming carafe of coffee. Callista looked dubiously at the last. Coffee was expensive and came only in small quantities from the few colonies that clung to the edges of Pandyssia.

It had to be Treavor's, or a gift from the twins, brought on one of their ships that trawled the waters between Gristol and that dark continent.

Minutes passed. She was left alone with breakfast more sumptuous than two people needed. There were only two windows in the room, and they opened out onto the back courtyard that was in serious need of cleaning and planting; the buildings surrounding the townhouse kept out any real light.

At last, she heard footsteps in the hall. She straightened in her seat. The door opened, and first she saw only Wallace Higgins, stepping inside, then holding the door open.

Then Treavor, pale and looking more pinched than usual, stepped inside.

"Good morning, husband," she said.

He seemed startled at that. He cleared his throat and looked down at one of his hands. "Good afternoon would be closer. At least _good day_."

"Well, good day. Will... you sit?" She could already feel herself flushing with humiliation. "I must confess, I half expected you to be gone by now, out attending to business."

"Yes, well," he said, then cleared his throat again and took up his seat across from her. "Wallace recommended- well, suggested- that we at least breakfast together, in case I'm gone the whole day." He reached for the carafe, and poured himself a large cup of the bitter, acrid liquid. It took more than half the carafe, and he frowned at it as he set it back down.

She held up a hand. "I don't have the taste for it," she said.

"Oh," he said.

He didn't offer an explanation as to where it came from. Perhaps that meant he'd first intended it as a gift to _her_ in particular.

They selected their food in silence. They ate in silence. Without the audience of the night before, they had no army to ally against. Instead, they faced one another and did their best to ignore each other. Wallace remained quiet in the corner of the room.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked at last.

Treavor's fork clattered against his plate, and she looked up to see him flushed and shifting awkwardly in his seat.

_Oh-_ he was taking it as an insult, she realized belatedly. A reminder that he'd passed out.

"I didn't mean-"

"I slept _fine_," he said, curtly. "And yourself? Did you eventually get to bed last night?"

Now she was flushing. Had it really taken her a long time? No- he'd been passed out, and all she'd done was get changed for bed.

"Of course I did," she snipped back.

"We need to talk," he said, "about our room."

Her head shot up from where she'd had it bowed in embarrassment. "Our-"

"There's nowhere for Wallace to help me get ready in the morning," he said, sitting back in his seat. His plate was barely touched. She wondered if he'd actually already eaten, and all of this was a farce to demonstrate how generous he was with her, how _patient_. It seemed more like his brothers' style than the man she'd spoken to so intimately the night before, but in the light of day, with her head aching faintly and her thoughts otherwise clear...

"Oh," she said, pursing her lips and sitting back from her own plate. "Is that something that can be fixed?"

"Not easily. I've looked at the other rooms in the house. None have proper dressing rooms."

She hadn't thought at all about that.

"I can't very well have Wallace coming into our room in the mornings to help me ready myself if you're still in bed," he sniffed, pouring himself the rest of the coffee.

"Then I'll rise first," she said. "Today was- today is an anomaly."

"And who will help _you_ get dressed, while _I'm_ still in bed?" he asked, and shook his head. "It won't do. It-"

"I am capable of dressing myself, _husband_," she said. "I've done it every day of my life, except for last night. I will continue taking care of it."

He stared at her, then swallowed down whatever he'd been about to say. "That's- that's hardly proper," he said instead, voice tight.

"It will do until we have the proper... arrangement of rooms," she said, primly setting down her own silverware at last. The meal was clearly over; her stomach felt like a dense ball of lead. "Or would you rather us take separate rooms entirely?"

His flush drained from his face, taking with it all the natural color. His lips parted slightly, gaped like a fish's. Then he looked away, brow furrowing for just a moment.

"Of course not," he said. "It'd be unseemly. People would talk."

Callista swallowed down her reply, too ashamed suddenly to admit that maybe separate rooms would have been a good idea.

_People would talk_.

* * *

A few hours after noon, a note arrived for Callista penned in what Treavor took to be her uncle's hand. He took it to her himself after a long internal debate. Wallace was overseeing the move of some of Treavor's more priceless pieces of furniture across the city, and Treavor had made the mistake of not going with him. He'd thought, at the time, to go out to his club instead.

And then he had realized that the valise Wallace had packed was, unfortunately, full only of his business clothes and house clothes, not his club clothes. He would have looked as dreadfully out of place as he felt inside the walls of his - _his_, dammit - new house, and that was exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

He wanted to _belong_, at least for a few hours of the day. Taking the letter up to Callista wouldn't help, specifically, but at least he wouldn't be hovering impatiently in the library waiting for Wallace's voice to sound in the hall again.

She'd shut herself up in the study outside of their bedroom shortly after breakfast. Wallace had passed through freely in the pursuit of putting away clothing and settling small pieces of furniture that wouldn't go to the room he had claimed for his employer's sitting room, but Treavor had stayed far away. Now, the door was closed again. He considered it for a moment, then squared his shoulders and knocked.

"Yes?" Callista's voice answered.

It didn't _sound_ hoarse from crying or screaming or cursing, and that he supposed, was a blessing. At breakfast, she'd seemed... cold. Regretful. He'd hoped to appeal to propriety and to help her save face by denying her joking (_had_ it been joking? He couldn't afford to think on it-) suggestion of taking separate rooms, but it had only served to chill the room still more.

He cleared his throat.

"It's- it's me," he said, then winced. That had sounded _pathetic_.

Callista seemed to agree; she didn't respond for far too long. Then, finally, the doorknob turned. Treavor looked up, startled to realize his gaze had drifted to his shoes like he was a child awaiting chastisement, then startled again to realize some maid hadn't answered the door.

No, it was Callista looking back at him, with a faint, sad sort of smile. He swallowed, thickly.

"What is it?" she asked, her tone far softer than he would have predicted.

He cleared his throat again and held up the letter. "This came for you. Creighton said a Watchman delivered it."

She looked at it, then at him, as if uncertain if she could simply take it.

He pushed it towards her. That seemed to be enough of an answer. She reached up and plucked it from his clammy (when had they become _clammy_?) hand, and turned from him, walking over to the desk. He watched for a moment, then followed, unsure of what else to do.

It wasn't fair, he decided. He should never have made an attempt to get to know her, should never have opened up to her - because now, even though her features were still pinched and she walked and stood with the stooped, hunch-shouldered posture of somebody not accustomed to or deserving of the finer things in life (or of _respect_, he supposed, though the thought was beginning to sit ill with him), even though she didn't know how to dress or address him, he found her in many ways devastatingly-

Interesting.

Which left him tongue-tied and awkward and thinking too much about the actions he couldn't get himself to take, now that the first drunken flush of their wedding night had failed.

"There's wine, on the sideboard," Callista said, as she picked up a letter opener with her back still to him. He noticed for the first time the glass, half-full, by her hand.

He hummed in acknowledgement, then went to the bottle happily. His headache and the filmy taste in his mouth was finally gone, and it seemed appropriate to celebrate with at least a half a glass of-

Behind him, he heard a soft, barely restrained sound, something almost like a sob. He froze. No more sounds of its ilk came, but he looked over his shoulder all the same.

Callista was holding the letter in one hand, and had her other hand balled into a fist and pressed to her mouth. Her expression was tight. It was _not_, he noted with relief, twisted in grief or horror, or even anger.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

He watched as Callista took a deep breath, and lowered both hands. She tossed the letter onto her desk, her gaze fixed on it as it settled on the wood. "My uncle," she said after a moment, voice modulated and controlled, "will not be stopping by today, but he does send his congratulations."

"I- see," he said. He thought back to the night before, realizing that Geoff had barely been involved, as far as he'd seen. Oh, Callista had spoken with him at the dinner, but he hadn't been in the room after Treavor's collapse, hadn't factored into the final decision at all.

She must have missed him terribly. Treavor couldn't claim to understand their connection, but it must have been powerful. They were the only two remaining of a family that, he understood, had been legitimately close. There hadn't been a need for the vicious infighting and backstabbing of noble families. They had simply... lived together.

And died together.

He cleared his throat again. "Well, ah. I'm sure we'll have other guests stop by, though none so- charming and reassuring, I'm sure."

Callista made a small noise of agreement.

"Perhaps- perhaps we could set a precedent. Turn them all away. After all, I suppose we have quite a lot to talk about."

She looked up, quickly, and he caught a faint blush on her hollow cheeks before it was swallowed up by her pallor.

She was thinking about their neglected duties. The thought made him turn away and finish pouring his glass of wine. "The money, I mean," he said, setting the bottle back down. "What improvements we intend to make to the house. How we intend to invest. Your allowance-"

"_My_ allowance? Lor- _Treavor_, you seem to misunderstand."

He turned to her, slowly. She was watching him with both hands on her desk; she had circled around behind it, putting it between them.

"The money did not default to you upon marrying me. You have access to it, and your children will inherit it, but any expenditure must be approved by _me_, not the other way around."

He went very still, like a frightened animal. "That's- not how my brothers explained it to me."

"I made it very clear to my uncle-"

Heat suffused his cheeks, and he realized only too late that it was from anger, not embarrassment. By that time, he had already stalked closer to the desk, slammed his hands down very near to hers, leaned in. "My brothers would not have lied to me about this," he hissed.

She pulled herself up to her full height. She was still shorter than he was.

"And _I_ would not have lied to them about it. But unfortunately, I didn't do most of the negotiating."

"If your uncle-"

"If my uncle lied to them, it was to protect me. Is it really going to be so much of a hardship to you, _husband_, to share my wealth instead of doling it out to me in approved allowances, keeping me to frivolities instead of business?"

He snorted. "And how much do you know of business, Miss Curnow?"

"_Mrs._ Curnow," she countered. "And... not enough. I was _going_ to defer to your expertise."

His anger seized, and he looked away, the expected shame finally appearing. "I-"

"But I will _learn_ from you. I'm not just going to hand over all that remains of my family. Does that make sense... husband?" Her voice softened by the end, the steely bite it had acquired fading off into something a lot like the defence she claimed not to have.

He looked up to see her shoulders hunched slightly. She, too, was flushed - and he fancied that, like him, it was half from excitement and half from embarrassment. "It... makes sense. And it's still something we need to discuss."

She nodded. Her gaze wasn't quite fixed on him. Without a word, Treavor reached out and nudged her wine glass closer to her.

The noise of glass on wood drew her attention, and she reached out and took it. For a moment, their fingers brushed. Treavor fought the urge to reach for her; now certainly wasn't the time.

"You know," she said at last, considering the glass, "I suppose I should be thanking you."

His brows rose in question, and she looked up in time to catch it.

"You haven't once treated me like a governess. I'm sure the effort must tax you." The words were spoken without any judgment or ire, just a sort of exhausted wonder. "It... does mean a lot to me."

He swallowed, throat suddenly thick. She was making herself vulnerable, he thought. If he ever apologized like this, or spoke about his insecurities like this, before his brothers... He didn't want to think on it. So instead he cleared his throat and retrieved his glass from the sideboard, and went to sit in one of the armchairs. They were the same set, he realized, that he had shared with her those first few meetings.

"Well," he said as she came to join him, then realized he didn't know what to say. He'd known the rumors. He'd always known she came from common stock. He hadn't even been making much of a conscious effort, really.

When the silence stretched thin, Callista took a sip of wine and said, "That is to say, I never got the impression that you were marrying me solely for the money. Except for now, I suppose, but the acting is-"

"I- I didn't," he stammered, then frowned. No, he _had_. That had been the point. Except it hadn't been his decision, so he hadn't felt the same fierce need for conquest. Perhaps that was what she had noticed. And then, after he had his fit and she _still_ said she would have him, after he had let loose some of his fears and agonies about his brothers, perhaps it had changed a little more.

Had that only been last night?

He took a healthy swallow of wine.

"The money was a major consideration, of course," he said, when the flavor had permeated his mouth and nose and lungs. "But I- you- none of this was my choice, you understand. From the beginning."

"And yet you don't resent me for it," she said.

He looked down at his lap. It must have been the governess in her, able to embarrass him and compel his good behavior. _That_ was it. She said he didn't treat her as a governess, but perhaps she missed all that it could entail.

"Last night," he began, then looked up sharply as Callista choked a bit on her wine. She waved a hand at the slight lift of his free arm as if he would help. He waited until she had quieted, then said, "Last night, I really did want to marry you, more than I expected." He swallowed, his stomach fluttering a little. "I am- grateful that you were willing to take me. Very much so."

"Yes, well, neither of us did much taking last night," she murmured, and it was his time to choke on his wine. He set the glass aside and reached for his handkerchief, and blotted his lips.

"I- Falling asleep was not my intention- you took a _very_ long time." He looked up from the stained fabric. "Were you- were you _hiding_? I would understand if you are a bit- that is, if you've never- being nervous is-"

She turned scarlet and rose from her seat. "I am twenty-three years old, Treavor, of _course_ I've- that's also none of your business."

"I think it _is_," he said, focusing intently on refolding his handkerchief.

"Yes, well, and how many times have you gone to- to the Cat? And how many servant women have you-"

"_That_ is none of your business," he said, looking up, his lips pressing to a thin line. "I don't think it's appropriate-"

"That many, then?" she asked, and he stared at her, withering beneath her gaze.

Out in the hall, he heard voices. One was Wallace's. He shot to his feet, feeling himself sweating, his hands clammy now, his heart racing. The night before, he had wanted to marry her if she would still have him. He'd wanted to escape his life. He'd wanted the money. He'd wanted- he'd wanted _her_.

And he still did, more or less, but the way she looked at him now, dissected him-

He fled with a mumble of_, _"We'll talk about this later."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5_**

They took no visitors that first day, Treavor because he was out of the house for most of the rest of it, and Callista because she was feeling petulant and raw and preferred to shut herself into the library with orders to Creighton - because he was within view of the door at all times - not to let anybody in. She took tea in with her, and a few pastries, and the open bottle of wine she'd started in her office, and she went to one of the fuller shelves that was filled not with placeholder texts to make the room look more bountiful and studied, but with books from her home. She took down a volume on tides and the creatures left behind on rocky shores when they retreated.

It wasn't a book about the open ocean or whaling, but she worried she'd get lost in the enormity of the topic.

She curled up in a chair that she had sat in as a girl, and she buried herself in the words. Nothing else needed her attention, or time, and for once it felt like a relief instead of an ill-fitting burden. There were no chores to be done. Dinner would be prepared for her. The washing was no longer hers to do. There were no children to teach, no employers to appease.

She had only herself. Even Treavor was gone, personally helping with the move now. Beyond the library door, she eventually heard footsteps, voices, thuds of furniture against the floor, but she didn't need to rise or go to help.

But when it was silent again, she felt pressure behind her eyes, and the particular tightening of the skin across her face that meant she was close to tears. She closed the book and rose from her seat, and went to look out the window at the boulevard beyond. A railcar went by with its showers of sparks; two men stood speaking out across the way; the sun was beginning to set, and crows had settled on the high eaves of the house across the corner from her. The light was orange and bright, cutting through the cloudless sky, and somewhere, several streets down, was the river.

The windows on the ground floor didn't open, though, and so she couldn't smell its familiar, fetid stench.

Up until a few days before the wedding, she'd still lived in her own small, cramped apartment. There had been rats in the stairway and the lights hadn't all worked, and her hot tap in her kitchen sink had been broken for the last five months. She'd insisted on paying her rent with the leftover money from her last teaching job, ended a week after the wills were finally sorted. Now, she had only a few coins of ten left from her old life. They were in a small box she had tucked beneath her pillow. She'd told the maids not to move it; she hoped neither of them would steal from it.

She braced her weight on the window sill, feeling unbearably heavy and leaden. Her life had been cramped and sharply delineated before, but all the openness and possibility before her felt overshadowed. She didn't want it. She'd adjusted to her life as a governess, even though it hadn't been the one she'd dreamed of as a girl. Now she had this new mess to become accustomed to.

She sighed, rubbed her hands over her face, and went back to her seat.

Hours passed. Treavor did not come home for dinner. She ate in the library, just some cold soup that was almost familiar, and she finished her book on tides and placed it back carefully, lovingly. A book on shipping along the Wrenhaven came next. When the light outside failed, she rose and lit the lamps herself.

It must have been near midnight by the time somebody knocked on the library door. Her eyelids were heavy, her gaze wandering blearily along the page. She lifted her head.

"Yes?"

"May I come in, Mrs. Curnow?" It was Wallace. Callista grimaced and straightened up in her seat, scrubbing at her eyes and passing a hand over her hair. It seemed to be mostly in place, still.

"Come in," she said.

The door opened. It was only Wallace, without Treavor in sight. She wondered if-

Well, maybe he was already upstairs. Waiting for her. Finishing off the cider from last night, perhaps? She'd managed to avoid thinking about him since she'd shut herself away, but it all came back in a humiliating, frustrating rush. Their last conversation had been-

Less than good.

She cleared her throat and looked up at Wallace with what she hoped was a placid, even expression.

"Pardon the intrusion, but it's getting late. The maids wanted to know if you had fallen asleep, but were- too nervous to knock, it appears."

_Well, that's silly_. She did rise, though, and moved to put her book back on the shelf. "I'm very much awake. Is- has my husband-"

"He will be out a few hours longer," he said.

She froze, fingers still brushing the spine of the book. She swallowed. Her cheeks burned, faintly. It was near midnight, and Treavor was out and would continue to be out.

"Oh," she said. "I see."

She tried to imagine what sort of whore Treavor would choose. Would he pick somebody who looked like her, or somebody as far from her as he could manage? Some soft-hipped, well-fed lady with blonde hair and a smile for him? Or maybe he had a standing mistress. Maybe it was even one of the women from the wedding last night. Geoff had hinted- she'd _seen_ in her years as a governess- it wasn't _unheard of_-

"He's at his club," Wallace said, with a tinge of derision in his voice.

Callista suspected it wasn't directed at Treavor.

"Do you know when I should expect him back?" she asked, forcing her tone to be light and even as she turned to face him at last.

"Likely after you've fallen asleep. I'll go by to bring him home if it reaches an- obscene hour. He will be well taken care of, ma'am." His voice turned to a sneer at _ma'am_, and Callista had to fight not to flinch.

"Of course," she said.

"You likely shouldn't wait for him."

"I'll go up to bed when it suits me, Mr. Higgins," she said.

"Of course, ma'am." He managed not to sneer as much.

It was a start.

"How long have you served my husband?" she asked after a moment of awkward silence.

"My entire life, more or less," he returned, evenly. "My father served his father."

"But you didn't serve his brothers?"

"No. I was- too young. And it was decided that Treavor needed me more."

_By who_? She pursed her lips. Had Treavor's fits already begun by that time?

"I prefer to serve him," he continued, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "He is a far better man than his brothers, as I'm sure you've already noticed."

She nodded. "I have noticed. Treavor alluded to injuries that have left him with his current- condition. I also noticed that he alternately shies away from his brothers and lashes out against them."

"You are very observant, then," Wallace said, slowly, eyes narrowing. "They have not been kind to him; he is understandably strained by their relationship."

"Then I am glad to have given him a way out," she said. It had been half the reason she'd decided to go forward with the marriage, after all; she'd had a very strong sense that Treavor needed to get away from his bullying, violent older brothers. Geoff had hinted at rumors about them, too, and it was making more and more sense now why he had preferred to do the negotiations himself.

Wallace humphed low in his throat. "It would be a good idea if you didn't bring it up with him, unless he invites it. It is-"

"A delicate matter. I understand."

She considered the man. He was tall and broad and in many ways everything that Treavor was not. She wondered if Treavor ever envied him. He certainly relied on him and trusted him a great deal, though she'd barely seen them interact. Perhaps _this_ relationship was why Treavor was so ready to treat her more like an equal than she'd ever anticipated.

Then she remembered Treavor bellowing for the man last night, and decided that, no, Treavor's relationship with her was quite different, if not wholly defined.

She could feel herself hunching the longer she stood there. It was a habit that was nearly impossible to break. Her shoulders rolled forward and her gaze dropped down. She forced it up again and drew herself upright.

"Yes, Mrs. Curnow?" Wallace asked in answer to her shifting.

"His fits," she said, after a moment's thought. "How should I respond if he has one again?"

"Call for me," he said, words clipped. His brow drew down. "I can take care of it. But I doubt he will have one again soon, if at all. Without his brothers-"

She held up a hand, and he cut off sharply. She looked to her open palm, startled. Even _he_ would listen to her? Callista took a deep breath, then looked back to him. "_If_ he has another fit, I would like to be able to assist. Especially if- if it's in a situation where you coming to help would be-"

Callista trailed off, unable to articulate or even fully picture Treavor having a fit in their bed. She could imagine her own fear quite clearly, though. She would be terrified. And the longer she knew him, the worse it would be. It would be like losing another family member.

Suddenly, the thought of growing close to him took on a new, bitter level of dread.

"He has never had a fit in an intimate moment," Wallace said after a moment, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "That isn't- that's not something you should concern yourself with, Mrs. Curnow."

She swallowed to clear the lump in her throat. "I would still like to know the theory."

Wallace was silent at first, then sighed. "Catch him if he's standing, if at all possible. He's broken his nose before, and once his wrist. Then lie him down on his side. Otherwise, he could choke on his saliva - or his vomit. The rigidity will pass within a minute, the seizing in another, and then he will sleep. It will take some time for him to wake up, and when he does, he will be- confused."

Callista could feel herself growing pale as she pictured every step in perfect clarity. "Confused?" she murmured. "He didn't seem confused last night."

"Not by the time he was talking. He's often very quiet until the fog passes enough for him to think."

She nodded, slowly.

"You look pale, Mrs. Curnow. Would you sit?" Wallace asked, and took a step towards her. Then he stopped, jaw tight.

"I'm fine, Mr. Higgins. Thank you," she managed. "I just- have seen quite a few illnesses."

"He is in no danger," Wallace said. "He is more likely to get a skin rash or a strong headache."

She frowned. "A _skin_ rash-"

"M'lord- _Sir_ has very sensitive skin," he said. "But we've isolated most of what sets off those attacks as well, and he has a cream that-"

"I- I'm fine not knowing that," she said, haltingly, and then felt for the chair at last. No, she did need to sit. This should have felt more real to her last night. She had _seen_ him seize the night before. And yet she'd been numb, and only vaguely frightened, and more concerned and desperate and lonely.

Now she anticipated his early death, and it didn't fill her with an expectation of freedom - it filled her with terror.

Wallace regarded her quietly, then asked, "Could I get you a nightcap?"

"That would be nice," she said, her voice a bare whisper as she covered her face with her hands and remembered to breathe.

* * *

He almost went back to Pendleton manor.

As it was, he could barely give directions to his new home. His head was spinning, and it was only half from drink. He replayed, again and again, the night's events, and each time, he wilted further in his railcar, grimacing and blinking against the lights of the cabin.

He wanted to be alone. Humiliation stung and pricked at him. They'd let him into his old club easily enough, and his brothers _hadn't_ been there, but those were the only good parts of the night. The wine had been bad, the whiskey had been bad, and everybody in the entire place had known that he hadn't managed to bed his wife.

And he'd managed to lose a coin of fifty in a stupid bet with that _bastard_ Montgomery Shaw, and that had been the end of the night. He'd fled with what little dignity he had left. At least Wallace hadn't shown up to drag him back home.

_They'd known_. The thought plucked at him. They'd already been talking about it before he even walked in the door. _Somebody_ in his household had talked to somebody else, and in less than a day Shaw and Brisby and all the rest had known the hilarious truth that Treavor Pendleton had collapsed in a drunken heap in his wedding bed and hadn't managed to even stick a finger in his new wife, let alone his sad excuse for a prick.

He banged his head against the side of the car, then cursed and sat up straighter, pressing his hand to his temple.

The details, of course, had been exaggerated. Shaw had grinned at him from across the billiard's table, tapping out ash from his cigarette, and had said something like, "_So I heard that your governess-wife locked you out of the bedroom last night, is that true_?"

And Brisby had chimed in with, "_Oh, no, that's all wrong Montgomery- I'm sure that's what she _**_wished_**_ had happened, though. By all accounts, our friend here had a bit too much to drink and- well- you know how it can be..._"

His cheeks had burned and he'd missed his shot. "_I'll have you know,_" he'd spat, "_that we performed our conjugal duties quite adequately_." But he'd blushed and looked away, and they'd known he was lying.

Shaw made his next shot effortlessly. "_No need to be so defensive, Treavor. It happens to the best of us. Shame, though, that it happened the same night she took your title from you. I drove past your new home this morning. Dreadfully small_."

"_Yes, Ramsey has a bigger townhouse, even if it is a bit too close to Slaughterhouse Row for my tastes_," Brisby had added.

And on and on it had gone, until everybody was several glasses in and the jabs had turned more barbed, and they'd called him **_Mr._**_ Curnow_ with all the pleasure of small children learning a new joke, and he'd fled. He'd given up. He'd allowed them to chase him out.

He could still hear their laughter as he staggered from his car and up to the front stoop.

There he stood staring at the door, frowning. Did he knock? Did he call out? At Pendleton Manor, the door would have already been open for him. Grimacing, he brought his hand down hard on the wood, then hissed as it sent a jolt back up his arm.

The door opened. Callista's man stood there, looking slightly confused. What was his name? Started with a Cr-

"Good evening, sir," the man said, stepping back and waving him in. "Mr. Higgins just left to fetch you, a few minutes ago. Did you see him on the road?"

"No," Treavor gritted out, feeling his cheeks heat again. "I must have just missed him."

"Should I- should I send for one of the maids, to help you prepare for bed, then?"

"I'll do it myself," he snapped, stepping into the foyer and struggling out of his coat. His lips thinned, pursed, and then he turned on his heel, only swaying a little. "Let them know that they're all _fired_, by the way."

The man stared at him, the harsh light from the street lamps coming in from the open doorway, slashing across his features. "All of them, sir?"

"_All_ of them. The cook too. _Somebody_ let out the details of last night, and I do not allow indiscretion. Is that clear, C- Cr-"

"Creighton, sir," he supplied. He looked rather stunned. Maybe he hadn't had anything to do with it. He had been sitting at that door all day, at any rate. "Ah- does _all_ include _me_, sir?"

Treavor squinted at him, then shrugged. "I'll let you know in the morning," he said, and turned on his heel once more, making towards the stairs.

"Of course. Very good, sir," Creighton said, stumbling over his words a little as he shut the door.

By the time Treavor reached the door to the bedroom, he was regretting not asking Creighton if Callista was still awake. He didn't want to face her, _couldn't_ face her. He'd entertained the idea, earlier in the evening, of coming into bed with her, kissing her awake, rucking up her sleeping gown- but those thoughts had been soured by his humiliation, not only at his colleague's hands, but at hers. The conversation from the study still burned in his mind. Things refused to settle, or be simple, and so he held his breath as he eased open the door.

If she was awake, he'd simply drop off his coat and leave. If the bed was empty, he would go to sleep. If she was beneath the sheets, he'd-

Well, the quickest way to shut up his detractors _would_ be to kiss her awake. The thought returned, still soured but beginning to grow tantalizing once more. It would solve at least one problem, maybe more. He held his breath.

Light from the streets below illuminated the room in a ghostly pallor. Callista lay in the bed, hair down, her body half-covered by her sheets. His heart began to pound in his chest. But as he watched, she twisted, curled onto her side, hands fisting in the sheets. She made a small sound, like a whimper or a child's first startled cry. Her brow contorted.

He hovered in the doorway, uncertain.

"Please don't go," Callista whispered, and Treavor jumped. He leaned forward, peering at her, but her eyes were screwed shut. "No, don't go. Not again. Not again. You- you _can't_-"

Slowly, his hand left the doorframe. He made himself move to the side of the bed. He looked down at her, with her pained expression and hands clawed against the fine fabric. She was hurting, and she was frightened, and he had no idea what to do.

Wallace would have known. Wallace had settled him during his share of night terrors.

Callista's babbling continued, but it lost sense rapidly, became just sequences of names and sighs and sobs. He never touched her. He thought of smoothing her brow, or caressing her hand, but he couldn't bring himself to do either. He simply watched until she finally was still again, before going to his side of the bed and stripping, perfunctorily. Wallace had left his valise in the room, though had only unpacked half of it, and Treavor was left to rifle through it blind until he found a shirt he could sleep in himself.

One day, it wouldn't be necessary - but he could hardly wake her up from nightmares simply to kiss her and rut against her.

It felt-

Wrong.

He climbed in beside her and stared up at the ceiling. Shaw's and Brisby's taunts were far from his thoughts, and he supposed he should have been grateful. Instead, he found himself listening for any signs of distress from his partner, his wife, and fell asleep fretting about the sound of her breathing.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter 6_**

Tea was set out in a sunroom on the top floor of the house. The room was dusty and ill-furnished, with nothing but two worn chairs sitting by the largest of the windows with a low table between them. Callista stared at the tableau for a few moments, then sighed and crossed to her seat, the smaller of the two, and sank into it gratefully.

She'd woken before Treavor this time, as she'd promised to. He had been fast asleep beside her, his high brow softened in sleep, his features even and restful. She'd searched his skin for any sign of the maladies Wallace had alluded to, and had found a faint pink rash on his neck that could have been from his razor - it was hard to tell.

Then she'd made herself rise, and dress, and leave him to his rest.

They'd eaten together in silence. She hadn't asked where he had been, he didn't offer explanations or apologies. Then he had gone out, and she had considered taking a long, long walk, but instead had retreated once more to the library.

The note from Geoff had arrived a few hours later, and now here she was, awaiting him, worrying at the hem of her jacket, wondering what she would say to him. _Hello uncle, my marriage is already a failure_? _He's going to die young and I'll be alone again and it scares me_? Or perhaps, _He stayed out until I was asleep last night - I think he's avoiding me - I think I disgust him_.

Or maybe none of that. Maybe it would be best to pretend that everything was just fine. But he would realize, upon entering the house, that all the maids he'd helped her hire had been kicked out as soon as breakfast was finished, and she'd have to end the meeting before too long so she could go hire more. Treavor hadn't entirely explained his reasoning, but he'd said something about indiscretion, gossiping, and a lack of privacy. She hadn't had the energy to argue.

There was a soft knock on the door, and she looked up, expression grim, as Geoff stepped into the room.

He paused upon seeing her. "I take it my congratulations will be laughed at?" he asked after a moment.

That was enough. She started crying, slumping down in her seat and putting her arms and head down on the table. It came on her fast and sudden, painful and unstoppable, and she could only shudder as Geoff crossed the room to her with a soft curse and settled his hands on her shoulders, then bent down to encircle her in his arms.

"I'm sorry I didn't come yesterday," he said against her hair. "Believe me, I wanted to. But there was an issue at the Tower, and I had to meet with the Protector and the High Overseer- I couldn't come- I'm sorry-"

She shook her head.

"Has he hurt you?" Geoff asked, voice growing lower. Carefully, he eased her upright. Her crying had slowed somewhat, and she lifted her head so that he could cup her cheek.

"No," she mumbled. "No, just- just humiliated me. I don't think it was intentional. I- I-"

"Let me call a maid-"

"There _aren't_ any," she gasped out around another blubbering sob.

Geoff's brow drew down in confusion, and then he reached out and dragged his chair around the table to her side, sitting down in it and leaning forward. He took her hands in his and squeezed them tight.

"He fired them all," Callista said when she could speak again. "I don't know why. He fired them all this morning once we had breakfast - I had to make tea myself for us. And move the chairs. He said- he said the maids were _indiscreet_, but about what, I can't... I don't..."

Geoff looked down for a moment, lips pursing, then looked up at her and squeezed her hands. "If I had to guess, they're talking with other servants about the- state of your marriage. At the Tower yesterday, a noblewoman pulled me aside and asked if I was Geoff Curnow. When I said yes, she gave me her condolences that your marriage wouldn't last much longer."

She swallowed, thickly, and hunched in her seat.

"What was she talking about, Callista?"

She took a deep breath and pulled one hand free to scrub at her face. "It's nothing."

He sat back and pulled a worn handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out to her. "Clearly not."

She took it gingerly, dabbing at her eyes for a moment before she turned to the table and focused on pouring them tea. Her hands shook. "He won't touch me," she said. "And I can't touch him. That's all. I'm sure it's- it's normal."

Geoff was quiet for a long stretch, then asked, "Separate beds?"

"No. We thought that would be- improper. Though apparently the maids could tell anyway, if they were gossiping about it. I can't think of anything else- our only fight was very quiet-"

"_Fight_?"

"About money," she said. She frowned as she passed him his tea. "Treavor was under the impression that he had control over my money."

Geoff cleared his throat. "I may have- suggested that idea to his brothers. To smooth things over."

"I thought so," she said, pouring herself a cup next. The pot clattered against the rim of her cup. "It's been settled now, I think. More or less."

"I should have warned you."

"Yes, you should have," she said, then cursed as the pot jumped and tea spilled across the wood. She set it down harder than necessary and sat back, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. "This was a mistake," she said.

"Maybe. But it was the only option we had."

When her trembling had lessened, she opened her eyes again and looked at her sloppily-filled cup.

"I need something stronger," she said, and rose from her chair. "Stay there," she added, then left in search of the bottle of brandy she'd last seen in the library.

* * *

In the mid-afternoon, Treavor returned with Wallace in tow to find the house deserted, save for Creighton. A few quick, sharp questions revealed that Callista had never arranged interviews for the new maids and cook, and, in fact, that Creighton had last seen her disappearing into the kitchens a few hours ago, once her uncle had left.

When he asked why Creighton hadn't gone to retrieve her, the man shrugged and said that she'd asked not to be disturbed.

Which was a problem, because they needed to discuss _money_, and he wanted it done before he went out again. Ramsey had asked to see him. He had to know what he could lay on the table for a potential business deal before they met for drinks.

"Would you like me to check on her?" Wallace asked as Treavor glared at the door to the dining room and the kitchen beyond.

"No, I'll do it," Treavor said, and straightened out his coat. "We have much to discuss, anyway. _Privately_. In fact, don't come looking for us at all. We're going to shut ourselves into the study and hash this out until there's a _solution_, once I get her out of there."

Wallace quirked a brow in question, then inclined his head. "Of course, m'l- _sir_."

"And you need to get over that," Treavor snapped. "And if I find out you're slipping up to needle at my pride-"

"I would never," Wallace said, tone growing terse.

Treavor looked him over until he was satisfied with his honesty. Well, at least he had _that_ reassurance. Treavor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then pushed open the door to the dining room.

As the door shut behind him, he heard a soft wailing coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"Callista?" he called, fumbling in his inner coat pocket for his flask. "Callista, is that you?"

The wailing grew a little louder, then stopped abruptly. He pulled his flask out, uncapped it, and took a quick swig that was too large and left him coughing as he screwed the cap back in place. He tucked it away again and made for the kitchen door.

Inside, the late afternoon sun came in through several small windows above a preparation counter. Callista sat in a heap below them. A tea service that had likely been prepared for her and her uncle was set carefully on the table above her, where she'd left it. Nothing was broken She was decorous, at least, in her grief.

He grimaced at the sight of her. Her hair was half-down, her face was red and blotchy, and while the tea service was pristine, the bottle next to her was open, mostly empty, and lolling on its side. There were drops of what smelled like brandy on the floorboards, perfuming the whole room.

If there had been maids in the house, he would have shouted for one. As it was, he could only stare at her.

Creighton and Wallace couldn't see this. If he called for either of them, or if he walked her out through the main of the house, it would seal the marriage's doom. She'd hate him, bitterly, and he'd leave her humiliated and angry. No, he couldn't do that.

But he couldn't do _this_, either.

"Callista?" he repeated, a little more softly this time. She hadn't looked up at him when he came in. Now she peered up through the wispy curtain of hair shielding her eyes. Her brow contorted, and she let out a bitter sob, sitting up and slamming her hands back against the cabinets behind her.

She was in pain. She was in pain, and she was very drunk, and he thought he recognized that look of complete frustration and loneliness, though he'd always been better at hiding it. He cringed away from her, and her gaze grew challenging.

"We should- we should get you upstairs, to your room," he managed. His feet were lead as he took one step towards her, then another.

"_Our_ room," she corrected, slurring faintly. He didn't remember her slurring on their wedding night. Had the bottle started off full? "It's _our_ room, isn't it?"

"It is." He cleared his throat and smoothed down the front of his coat again, then came close enough to crouch by her. "And it's more comfortable than- than a bare wood floor. Come on."

"Is it _unbecoming_ of me, to sit here?"

"You're in the kitchen, Callista. Come on."

"I tried to make dinner," she said. "I tried to make my mother's soup, but we didn't have half the ingredients even though I _told_ the cook to buy them. We were supposed to have it for lunch, but then you fired her. I tasted it anyway. It was horrible. It wasn't my mother's."

She went silent for a moment, then shook her head. "But _mine_ isn't my mother's, either," she spat, "and I can't- I'm not even supposed to _be_ here. I'll never taste my mother's soup again, and I-" Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "I'm not right at _all_, am I? Not what you wanted or deserved or even imagined. This is all- this is all a _mess_, and I'm at the center of it, and there's no way out, is there? Because a divorce- a divorce just wrecks things even more." She shook her head again, then slumped forward.

He reached out instinctively, one hand bracing her shoulder, then other hovering by her cheek. There he faltered, unsure of how to or if he should touch her. "You'll- you'll learn, in time. You'll sort it- sort it all out," he said, then cleared his throat again. "Though there's nothing wrong with you now, either. Just unfamiliar. You'll understand. I'm sure _I'm_ unfamiliar to you, as well."

She looked up at him again, gaze unfocused. She squinted at his face. "Is the rash on your neck from a razor?"

He frowned, and reached back with his free hand. "I- perhaps-"

"I was looking at you. When I woke up. Wallace said you have rashes and headaches, along with your fits. You _promised_ me it wasn't in the blood."

Bristling, he snapped, "It's _not_. My brothers have none of the same."

"Well, I can't watch another person _die_," she said, pressing forward into his touch. He pulled away as if burned, and she fell forward, barely catching herself. Scrambling, she got her legs under her and rose up on her knees. "You're not allowed to. So the rash- the rash had better be from your _razor_, because otherwise I- I won't- I _can't_-"

She faltered, and fell back onto her heels, pitching to one side. Her hand hit the bottle, sending it clattering loudly over the floorboards. He reached out to catch her before she hit the floor.

"I'm just supposed to be a no-name governess that lives in an apartment by herself where the taps don't work and there are rats and that's all I ever- ever- ever got used to. Expected. I can't do this. I can't do _you_," she said, pleading, staring into his eyes.

His throat worked, but no words came out.

Those four words hung in the air, and slowly, he let go of her. She was right, even in her drunken ranting; a divorce would leave her worse off. She'd have to try again to find some second or third or fifth son, and they'd all know she had failed in her first attempt. It would likely humiliate him, as well, especially if she initiated the proceedings - and so soon after their wedding. But if she _couldn't_ lie with him- if he couldn't bed her- he didn't think he _could_, didn't think he knew where to touch her or even just how to make her okay, let alone happy-

Callista's frown deepened to a scowl, then lightened, and then suddenly she leaned forward and kissed him.

She tasted like brandy and not much else, and her kisses were hot and unstudied and wet. Her hands scrabbled at his chest, her fingers closing around his lapel and his cravat as she dragged him towards her. She didn't kiss like a woman who couldn't imagine fucking him, he realized with a start. She kissed like she was hungry, and desperate, and though he was sure it was hunger for legitimacy, he didn't mind being the focus for it. He slid his arm around her and balanced her against him, his other hand going to her cheek and jaw to hold her steady while he tried to calm her down, tried to focus her lips on his.

Distantly, he felt her shoulders twitch, and then she lurched back. He stared at her, her face grown pale and her forehead clammy, for one brief moment.

And then she vomited down his front and into his lap, and he cursed, letting go of her, pushing her away. He stumbled back and to his feet as she retched onto the floor. Bile sank into his jacket and his waistcoat and his shirt beneath it, and he fumbled with his clothing, trying to strip before it got any further.

It was hopeless.

On the floor, Callista stilled, panting for breath. She had the look of profound relief that only came in deep drunkenness, her stomach purged and her head foggy, thoughts fixed only on the fact that she was no longer heaving. He looked at the mess of them both, then swore, loudly.

There were no maids.

Eventually he gave up on trying to avoid the mess, and instead went to her again, pulling her up to her feet. She was markedly less talkative now, and more soporific. He had to get her upstairs, and cleaned up. That was all there was to it.

He looked for the servant's stairs. Thankfully, there was a flight, tucked away at the very back of the house, accessible through the kitchen. He walked towards it, half-carrying her. "If you'd hired the maids like I asked, this would be a damn sight less awkward," he grumbled.

"Didn't want to," she said. "Maybe tomorrow."

The stairs were narrow and dusty, but they were private. He braced her against him as he helped her up the steps and towards their bedroom. She leaned heavily against him the whole way, an arm around his waist. Her hand was close to the uncovered expanse of his waist where he'd gotten his shirt open.

"And who is going to prepare dinner tonight?" he returned as they passed briefly into the second floor hallway and over to the study. The path didn't put them in view of the balcony overlooking the entrance hall, thankfully.

"I can," she said. "Just- just won't be mother's- I'll do it. I always did."

"Have you _seen_ yourself? Look down," he said, and she only laughed, weakly. "No, I'll have- I'll have Wallace get you something, and I'll go back to the club."

"Always the club," she sighed. "Is that _really _where you were last night?"

He bristled, nudging open the bedroom door. He helped her to the vanity bench and then sat her down, before stepping back and surveying them both.

They'd need to wash, and Wallace could hardly be asked to help her. _Maids, maids, maids_. He didn't regret for a second kicking them all out on their worthless asses, but now-

Now _he _had to help her out of her soiled clothing.

He looked around, as if somebody would materialize and offer to assist. Nobody did.

When he looked back at Callista, she was leaning heavily against the vanity, unable to stay upright. He took a deep breath and came close to her again, dropping to one knee. "I'm- I'm going to undress you, alright? And then run you a bath, and get you in bed."

She blinked back languidly, then bit her lip, brow furrowing just a little. "We're doing this all wrong," she said.

"Believe me," he muttered, "I know."

She didn't push him away as he began undoing the front of her jacket. He tried at first to look elsewhere, but he didn't know women's clothing well enough to undress her blind. So instead he fixated on the details; the cheap buttons, the faded fabric, the common construction methods that had made her clothing affordable but ill-fitting. He maneuvered her out of her jacket, then stared at her corset. It was plain and the boning channels were worn at top and bottom. It would have to be replaced, even ignoring the new bile stains on it.

"Laces in the back," Callista murmured, and he made himself reach around her to pluck at the knots.

When her corset was at last loosed and unhooked, he stared at her body, hidden only by her undershirt. He could see the small swells of her breasts, and her thickened middle, no longer tightened down to a pleasing narrowness. She looked far more real, then, and he paused, looking up at her.

There was no coquetry in her gaze, but she did seem mildly aware of what was going on.

"Can you handle the rest?" he asked, desperate.

"I don't know," she responded.

He took a deep breath, then stood. "I'll- I'll get the bath running, and then we'll- I'll finish up." He fled the room, then hunched over the side of the tub as he opened the taps, gasping for breath. She was right - they _were_ doing this all wrong. They stank of vomit and they'd kissed only because she was drunk out of her mind - and now he was going to see her naked body for the first time only because he'd fired all the maids and there was nobody to take care of her. She'd just been talking about _divorce_, Void take it all. He'd have no money but a healthy helping of humiliation and loneliness- and she'd be alone, too, with her nightmares and- and her _fears_ of him dying-

Why was she afraid of him _dying_? He thought back to everybody else she'd lost, and felt sick.

There was too much riding on this marriage. This had never been just about money and heirs, and even the money and heirs were bigger than he'd thought. He groaned, then swore, then shoved himself up and stared at the slowly filling tub.

What had she said? She belonged in an apartment where the taps didn't work. Well, she was here now, and the least he could give her was a hot bath.

He left the tub and returned to the bedroom to find Callista fumbling with the buttons on her trousers. She'd managed to kick off both her shoes, but her toes pushed futilely at her stockings; she must have forgotten, or stopped caring, about the garters up under her clothing. He went to her, hands covering hers.

"I said I'd do it," he murmured, softly, and she looked up at him, flush-cheeked and biting her lip. She nodded. He nodded in return. "The bath's running," he added, in case she couldn't understand the sound.

"My mother made a really delicious soup," she responded, with a faint smile. "I wish I could've made it for you. She told me once that it- that it's what made my father fall in love with her."

His mouth went dry. "Ah- can you stand? It'll be easier to get you out of your- out of your clothing, if..."

She nodded, and he took her weight as she stood. He fumbled with her trousers until they slid from her narrow hips and pooled around her ankles. Next came her knickers, and he held his breath as the pale expanse of her thighs was exposed. He ignored the dun nest of hair between her legs, and instead settled her back on the bench and knelt to unfasten and roll her stockings down.

"You forgot my shirt," she said.

"I didn't forget it," he said, voice strangled. "I just- thought you might like the modesty, until we get to the bathroom. I'll- I'll remove it once you're settled."

He looked up to find her nodding, thoughtfully.

"Ready?" he asked, weakly.

She nodded again, and he hauled her against him as he walked her into the bathroom. The tub was nearly full, and he stared at it before leaning forward and closing the taps. He'd forgotten a first smaller run for washing up. _This_ was why he needed the maids. He looked around for a bucket, then swore as he felt Callista leaving his arms.

She pulled away from him and carefully levered herself into the tub. She sat down gingerly in the hot water, her shirt floating up around her breasts. He swallowed, thickly.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and his head jerked up as he looked to her face. "About- about your clothing."

"It's fine," he said after a long moment. "Nothing I haven't done before."

Her smile was weak, but she laughed, just a little. "We're doing this _all wrong_," she said again.

"I'm aware," he said, settling down beside the tub and focusing once more on getting out of his own clothing. "I- I have a meeting in a few hours, so you'll understand that I can't stay."

"A _meeting_?" she asked, the water in the tub sloshing as she came closer to him.

He didn't look up, even when her arm over the side of the tub dripped water onto him. "Yes, a business meeting. Which I'm not going to be prepared for, I guess. Jack Ramsey wants to talk to me about investing in his slaughterhouse operation."

"Did you know," Callista murmured, and he fixated on the slur in her voice, the same slur that had accompanied her frantic sobbing, "that I wanted to work in one of those once? Well, not in the slaughterhouses. On the ships. I wanted to go out to sea."

He looked up as he shrugged out of his shirt. "You? A whaler?"

She nodded, gaze distant. "I really wanted to. Even more when everybody started dying. I thought- I thought that since nobody would miss me, I could finally do it. Just run away. It seemed like freedom. But then I learned that they don't let women on boats, and certainly not women like me. Can you imagine me hauling line?"

He couldn't help his snort. Her arm, hanging over the side of the tub, was as thin and unmuscled as his own.

"But sometimes I still think about it, or at least about just- sailing away."

"We could go away," he said, looking at her. "On a honeymoon. Once the house is- is settled. We could go to Serkonos, if you like, or even Tyvia." He was surprised at his own earnestness. But the idea seemed perfect. They'd be away from prying eyes, they'd have privacy to negotiate their relationship, he wouldn't have _Shaw_ laughing at him-

"Can we afford that?" she asked.

He snorted. "That and more, trust me. Definitely more if Ramsey's proposal holds water."

"Can I go?" she asked. "To your meeting?"

"Not like this," he said. "But a second meeting, maybe."

"I think I'd like that," she said, sinking a little deeper into the water. She rested her head against the side of the tub, staring out towards the fogged windows.

"I can't stay much longer," he said after a moment of observing the line of her nose and chin, the delicateness of her cheekbones. He stood up. He was naked to the waist, the slight sink in his nearly hairless chest a little too obvious for his tastes. He'd have to go clean up in another room, though, and have Wallace get him ready. "Are you clean yet?"

She glanced blearily down at her front, then shrugged. "I guess so."

"Up, then. We'll get you in bed."

"It's not even dinner," she said as he bent and hauled her up. Her wet, translucent shirt clung to her skin. He bit his lip and tried not to think about her warm, wet breasts pressing against him through that thin layer of fabric, but his body responded in awkward fits and starts.

_She wants to divorce me_, he reminded himself. _This isn't the time._

She leaned against him as he helped her back to the main room. She'd soak the sheets, but he didn't think he could handle toweling her dry. Instead, he reached around her to tug down the blankets, then helped her sit.

"Good?" he asked.

"You should come to bed," she said, and he flushed as her breath ghosted hot over his chin.

"I don't have time," he returned, as evenly as he could. He could feel his cock beginning to strain at his trousers all the same. This could be the solution - he could tumble into bed with her, and kiss her again, and fuck her, and then be just a little late to his meeting, but _triumphant._

But her gaze was distant, and he couldn't get the thought of her crying out of his head, crying for a lost mother and out of fear of losing him. He couldn't do this. He couldn't bed her, not until he knew she was truly amenable.

He had to leave her a way out.

Callista frowned at him, then sighed and settled back in bed. He drew the sheets up over her.

"Besides," he said, straightening and clearing his throat, "we'd be doing it all wrong."

That drew a fuzzy smile from her. He soaked it in a moment longer, then took a deep breath, grabbed up some clothing suitable for meeting Ramsey, and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter 7_**

Treavor stared across the empty breakfast table. The new cook had yet to be hired, so Wallace was doing his best in the kitchen to make a decent plate of food. Treavor supposed it was for the best that nobody else sat at the table with him, looking at the sudden, accidental poverty he'd found himself in.

Callista hadn't been home when he'd gotten back from his meeting with Ramsey.

Swallowing, he loosened his cravat a little. Wallace and Creighton had both given the same story: Geoff had arrived around dinnertime, had ignored the two manservants and gone straight up to Callista's bedroom, had disappeared for the better part of an hour, and then had appeared at the head of the stairs with Callista, who was dressed but determinedly bleary.

Creighton had tried to get them to stay, but Wallace had simply called a railcar for them, so that they wouldn't have to walk.

By the time Treavor had returned, she'd been gone for hours. His house was bereft, home only to him, the two servants who remained, and the rats.

Nobody had thought to ask when she'd return - if she'd return at all - and he felt as if his heart was closed in a vise. Her uncle had come to take her away. Weren't there stories, out in the country, of fathers who stole their daughters back from loveless, barren marriages? She could be married again by morning. His thoughts had raced, and he'd sunk into the library chair that still smelled faintly of her and pictured them bursting into the records office of the Empress, demanding the marriage certificate, and burning it.

There would be ashes in her hair. He would be alone. It would be more humiliating than if _he_ had gone with her to annul the marriage.

Treavor stared blankly at the far wall. He'd hoped, desperately, that she would come back in the night. That he would wake to her crawling into bed with him, or that in the morning, she would be sitting at the table waiting for him.

He'd hoped there would at least be a note.

Wallace emerged from the kitchen and put a plate of lightly grilled eel and toast in front of him. He said something about tartlets in the oven. He said something else about having interviews for a new cook and new maids shortly.

Treavor ate in a daze.

A few hours later, he stood apart as Wallace walked up and down the line of women who had been sent by the agency. He only barely heard Wallace's instructions, his judgments, his careful, polished derision. Treavor's eyes passed over the younger women in the group, weighing their common beauties, wondering what it would be like to simply lose himself with one. His brothers weren't here to mock him for it. He could, as he'd known others to do, simply tell a girl he had no intention of hiring that if she came up to his bedroom and took off her clothing, he might be able to find a job for her.

If Callista wasn't going to come home-

But as he considered the maids, he thought more of how his wife had felt against him, how she had kissed him, how he had wanted - _badly_ - to touch her waist and her naked breasts, to settle her in bed with her legs spread for him, and by the time he felt even a little released from his paralysis of memory, the interviews were over. Creighton led the rejected maids out, and Wallace moved to show the ones who remained around the house.

Treavor caught his elbow as he passed. Wallace motioned the women towards the dining room, then turned and said, "Yes, sir?"

Treavor swallowed, then licked at his lips, and said, "I'll be going to the Cat this afternoon."

Wallace studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. And if your wife should return-"

"Tell her I'm at a business meeting," he said, quickly, trying not to feel the budding edge of guilt. "And then send for me. I'll want to- to see her."

"Of course."

"Do you... really think she'll come back?" he asked, before Wallace could turn away again.

"I don't know, sir. You haven't told me how your conversation with her went. I would guess that it would hint at your answer."

He cleared his throat. "Right. Well- get on with training the girls, then. I'll be back in a few hours."

Wallace nodded. Treavor released him, and went to ask Creighton to call for a railcar.

* * *

His brothers were in the steam room.

It would have been easy enough to ignore them. He managed to for the first half hour or so of his visit, too terrified of his own indecision to give them much thought. He'd nodded when Prudence told them they were present, shook his head when she asked if he'd like to see them. And then he had hovered in the smoking room, looking at the girls, listening to the music, and feeling as if his world was closing in.

It wasn't an oncoming fit, at least. He sat, and he smoked, and he sipped at brandy. His world did not turn to blackness. But it did constrict around him, tight and unrelenting. He looked at whores he was familiar with, whores that were new, a parade of women that he could pick and choose from at will. Sometimes he grew hard.

Often he did not.

It took him the better part of that half hour before he realized that the girls were ignoring him. After he'd been supplied with a cigar and a drink, nobody came to drape themselves over him, to coo, to flirt, to eye up his money. He noticed furtive glances, though, and whispered conversations. The watchmen who patrolled the floor at discreet distances watched him with too much attention.

Maybe that was why, when the summons from his brothers came up by way of a pretty young thing with a Tyvian accent and a wine-dark birthmark on her belly that she'd tried to hide with a tattoo, he stood and went down to them willingly.

He played their game; he stripped down to nothing then dressed himself in a towel before entering the steam room, and he tried to ignore the woman already kneeling between Custis's legs, her head hidden by the cloth draped over her. Treavor sat a polite distance away. Morgan grinned at him.

"Well, well, baby brother," Morgan said. Custis merely watched through heavy-lidded eyes, his lips tight to keep in any indecorous sounds of pleasure. "Here so soon after your wedding day? I believe Custis has lost a bet. He thought you would be foolishly devoted for the first month. But I hear that you've been having... _troubles_."

Treavor gritted his teeth. "A few stumbling blocks."

"Governesses can be tricky," Morgan said, pitching his voice low as he always did when he deigned to give brotherly advice. "They have a nasty habit of trying to either set themselves apart and aloof from the other servants, or to win their employer's sole affections. Disgraceful, eh? And it looks like you got the former. I should have warned you, baby brother - as far as I can tell, she's never gotten down on her knees for her employers."

Treavor felt a hot flash of anger on Callista's behalf. _No, she hasn't. She hasn't had to. She's been _**_spared_**. But then he thought about his own earlier contemplation of the maid, and felt sick.

He looked away. A new rush of hot steam gusted from the grates. He was sweating, but so were his brothers; he could write his embarrassed flush off to the heat.

"You're going to have to get her to spread her legs sooner or later," Morgan continued. "At least until you get the bitch with child. Then find her a nice lover who won't embarrass you. That's how it's _done_. Really, it doesn't even have to be _your_ child, you just have to be able to maintain the fiction."

"Thank you," Treavor muttered. "I always appreciate your _support_."

Custis let out a sharp gasp, head falling back for a moment. Treavor closed his eyes. He could hear shuffling as the girl between his legs got up, and when he looked again, she was curled against Custis's side, naked, her lips swollen and her breasts scored with fading bite marks.

"Do you want a turn?" Custis asked.

Treavor's gut twisted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure if he was disgusted or aroused. "No, thank you," Treavor said.

"Ah, yes, baby Treavor does prefer his privacy," Morgan sighed. "So. On to business."

He could hear blood rushing loud in his ears. He felt lightheaded. He _hated_ the steam room, for exactly this reason.

"Yes," Custis said. "We heard you met with Jack Ramsey yesterday. I'd like to remind you that it's a _terrible_ idea to invest with anybody before we've had a chance to hammer out your contributions to our interests, baby brother."

He worked his jaw. "I didn't promise him anything," he said at last. "Besides, Callista and I will-"

Morgan laughed, sharply. "_Callista_ doesn't have anything to do with this, especially not while she continues to humiliate you. As much as I'm glad to see that even a governess won't spread her legs for you without some coin, _Treavor_, it does reflect badly on us. You're embarrassing _us_, you know."

Treavor flushed deeper. "I need her approval before I move money."

"_Need her approval_," Custis parroted. "Why, or she'll birch you like a naughty student? Is _that_ the sort of thing she likes? Perhaps she and I could have a chat-"

"You will _not_ speak to her!" Treavor snapped, then caught himself, panting for breath. His hand clutched at his towel. "She- she hasn't signed over the fortune to me. I will need her approval before I _can_ move money."

Custis was silent. Morgan was not.

"The lying little _bitch_," he spat, face contorting in a snarl. "She _said_-"

"Her _uncle_ said," Custis said, voice deceptively even and calm. "But he never had control of the fortune at all. We should have insisted on talking to her directly, brother."

Morgan let out a frustrated, enraged growl, and slammed his fist into the seat.

Treavor knew what would happen next. Morgan would get up, cross the space between them. He would make this all Treavor's fault. He would mock him, and likely hurt him, and then he'd take the girl now tense against Custis's side and fuck her hard enough that he'd have to pay Prudence damages.

This was not what he'd wanted, when he came here- but Treavor wasn't _sure_ why he'd come here at all.

He was already cringing back in his seat when the door to the steam room opened and two watchmen entered. Treavor looked to them with relief, then growing concern. They were fixated on _him_.

"Mr. Curnow," the smaller of the two men said. Treavor winced. Custis snorted.

"Yes?"

"You need to come with us."

Terror gripped him. Had something happened to Callista? It had to have. If Wallace was here looking for him, Prudence would have sent one of the girls down to fetch him. He stumbled to his feet, then tried to recover his grace and poise, gripping at his towel and taking a few steps towards them.

"Is it urgent?" he asked.

They made no response.

He looked back to his brothers. Morgan was still livid. Custis was curious, maybe faintly amused.

"We'll continue this later," Custis said. His lips curled. "Perhaps at your home, dear brother."

Treavor nodded, tightly, then walked out between the two watchmen and went to retrieve his clothing.

"Do you mind telling me what this is about?" he asked as he fixed his cravat with trembling hands, stepping out from the dressing chamber. Usually, there would have been a girl in there to help him. There had been nobody. He remembered the guards watching him earlier.

"We got word from Captain Curnow," the bigger one said. He smirked. "Says you're not to be allowed in anymore."

His relief at Callista being okay was quickly drowned in his horror. "Not- not allowed- has Madame Prudence-"

"She's not happy, not with the coin in your pockets, but she has to take it up with the Captain," the smaller one said. "After you, _sir_," he added, clearly pleased that Treavor no longer had a title, or its protection. Still, they gave him the dignity of not touching him as they led him up the stairs. "It's not a good idea," the man continued as they walked, lowering his voice, "to make a fool out of the Captain _or_ his niece. Not in front of us. Some of us knew her growing up, you know."

Treavor paled. "I didn't- that wasn't my intention-"

"_Not your intention_," repeated the bigger man, then chuckled. "Now, Bert, what would _you_ say the intentions of a rich man going to a brothel are? Think he's a philanthropist?"

Bert snorted. "Yes, and I'm the Empress's daughter. Shove it, Mr. Curnow."

"You can't treat me this way-"

"Oh, we can't?" the unnamed watchman asked, with feigned shock. "Well, I'm so _sorry_, Mr. Curnow."

"I could have you all fired!"

"You think so?" Bert asked, rubbing at his chin. They raised their voices as they passed along the edge of the smoking room, towards the exit. All eyes were on them. Treavor's face burned. "Because I think you _could_ get us fired, but only if you went through the Captain. Which wouldn't make much sense, because he's the one who told us to throw you out on your ass, and not let you back in. So it _sounds_ like you can't do anything at all, Mr. Curnow."

There was laughter in the room, small titters. Treavor set his jaw.

Madame Prudence met them at the door. She looked- apologetic. Faintly.

"I hope we'll be able to see you again someday, Mr. Curnow," she said.

"Don't let my brothers know about this," he hissed, and fumbled for his coin purse. "Or _anybody_."

She was silent as he pushed five coins of fifty into her leathery, dry hand. He tried to remember to breathe. The bribe wouldn't do any good; enough patrons must have heard. The girls had, too, and while Prudence ran a tight ship, _one_ would talk. His world was spinning out of control.

He only hoped that Geoff wouldn't tell Callista.

"_Do not tell anybody_," he repeated, and then walked out of the building with his head held high.

* * *

He took a railcar halfway to his club, then stopped. He sat in the steel box with the doors sealed, and stared at the reflection of his eyes in the high-set slit window. If he stepped foot in his club, even if Brisby and Shaw were out, he would be mocked. He might last a day or two before news reached them all about what had happened at the Cat, but beyond that, it would be impossible to sit with them all, to drink, to play billiards, to be _envied_ instead of derided.

He couldn't go there.

He was starved for company. His house was empty. The Golden Cat and his club were closed to him. If he were a pettier man - and he had been, in his time - he would have found some way to retaliate against Captain Curnow, and against the twins' campaign of humiliation.

Instead, he sat in his car, and listened to the muffled sounds of life beyond the steel walls.

He could go home. He could return to the townhouse, throw himself into a chair, and drink until he was insensate. Maybe Callista would return, drawn by the siren call of his patheticness. Or perhaps she would never return, and that house would become a tomb for his respectability.

No, he didn't want to get home.

He leaned forward towards the compartment of the car that would hold drink and glasses, then paused. This wasn't _his_ car. It was merely a car for hire. The compartment would be empty. He gave up and fell back into his seat with a groan.

Perhaps Ramsey would be in, either at his house or at the club they'd met in the night before. Ramsey was a good sort. A bit too hot-tempered, but who wasn't in this city? And he was a fair sight better company than his old peers. The Boyles would pick at him until nothing was left but bones. Brisby would snicker and watch as Shaw flayed him alive. But Ramsey- Ramsey would drink with him, and they could continue to talk business, and maybe-

Maybe he'd learn something about the sea, or find a trinket for Callista. It might make her happy.

He keyed the speaker to the driver's compartment. "Take me to- Jack Ramsey's club. You know the one? By Draper's Row?"

The driver confirmed, and the car jolted to life. Treavor looked down at himself and straightened his clothing. He would come to Ramsey as a respectable man who was bearing up beneath his current situation.

* * *

He left drunk off his ass and grinning to himself.

_That_ had gone well, at least. Ramsey had been at the club, and he had welcomed _Mr. Curnow_ with a relaxed smile and a glass of sherry. Treavor hadn't had the heart to tell him that sherry really went best with meals, and that he'd be better bringing out the port. Instead, they'd sat and talked business, then women, then money, then politics - on and on, until the light failed outside. There were, of course, other men and even one or two women in the building, and Ramsey had introduced him to most of them.

But as Treavor stumbled into his waiting car, all he could really think about was Ramsey, and how the man seemed very up-front, and how he wouldn't _mind_ a temporary habit of visiting that club regularly. No nobles went to it. No, they were all-

_His_ people.

Ramsey, as it happened, had a woman he was very much enamored with, a Miss Adelle White. He had been guarded about her at first, but had soon let slip a few telling details. He'd been devastated when she turned down his offer of marriage. Ramsey still had the ring he'd offered her, kept in his breast pocket. So when the subject of Treavor's marriage had come up, Ramsey had been sympathetic. He had let Treavor guide the conversation, hadn't mentioned rumors he'd heard, and had listened intently as Treavor rambled on about Callista's interest in the sea, and whaling, and everything involved.

He'd promised to send along a wedding present of a few books on the subject he'd collected over the years, and perhaps a nice pendant made of whale bone. _Not_ one of those heretical charms the Abbey was so up in arms about, he had assured him - simply a nice piece of jewelry, carved by a skilled craftsman.

It was very generous. Later, Treavor would wonder about his motives.

For now, though, he basked in the knowledge that he had a safe place to retreat to and that he had gifts on the way to buy Callista's good will with. Perhaps _he_ should get her a wedding present, as well. It wasn't strictly traditional, but perhaps he could think of something. Something nice. Something unique. Something that would win her heart.

The car pulled up outside his townhouse before he could settle on any one thing. All he knew was that it would _have_ to be nicer than Ramsey's gift. He hopped up the steps, humming to himself. Creighton answered the door before he even knocked this time. The man was learning!

"Welcome home, sir," Creighton said. His spirits sounded high.

Treavor gave the man a quick grin.

"Wallace went to find you a few hours ago, but couldn't locate you," he added.

Treavor stilled, his grin beginning to fall. If Wallace had gone to the Cat- but if Wallace had gone to the Cat, that meant-

"Welcome home, husband," Callista said, stepping out from the library. She was dressed in blue. It was lovely. She looked well-rested, and gentle, and maybe even pleased to see him. He stepped past Creighton and went to her, taking her hands.

"I was worried about you," he said, quickly, hoping she wouldn't notice how his words were beginning to grow fuzzy. "Did you- was your visit with your uncle-"

"It was very nice," she said. "I think I'm much better now. I'm- I'm sorry about-" She glanced over his shoulder.

Treavor twisted to look at Creighton, who had returned to his seat and was trying to blend in with the wall.

"Let's talk about this upstairs," she suggested, and Treavor focused back on her. She was nervous. He could see that now. Her lips were tense. He let her lead him to the stairs, up to their study, where she paused short of their bedroom door. She let go of his hand, then, wringing hers together.

"I'm sorry," she began again, "for- for embarrassing you, yesterday. You should have never seen- I heard you had to hire the new maids yourself, today."

"Wallace did most of the work." He tried to smile for her. And then he tried not to think about undressing her, and how lovely she'd looked, even after vomiting on the both of them. "I- do you remember much of what happened?"

"I remember crying. I remember trying to make my mother's soup." Her lips twisted, grimly. "I remember humiliating myself. I- Wallace told me there was- that I must have retched in the kitchen. I hope you didn't have to see that."

Wallace had clearly not told her about cleaning Treavor up after that.

Treavor cleared his throat, trying to think. It was difficult, with his thoughts so hazy, to decide whether he should tell her what had happened or not. As he was thinking, his mouth moved, and he heard himself saying, "You were very beautiful."

Callista looked up from where she'd been staring at her feet. "Ah- were?"

"Yesterday," he said, flushing. "I mean- that is- I- you needed help getting to bed-"

Her cheeks grew pink. "_You_ put me to bed?"

"It- it seemed inappropriate to call for Wallace or Creighton, and the maids- there weren't any maids. So I thought I should get you to bed."

"You undressed me?" she asked, voice dropping to a whisper.

He nodded. "You're very beautiful," he said again. His mouth still tasted like port and cigars. It was suddenly very important that she knew that he didn't blame her at all for the day before. "I- I don't mind. About yesterday. I was frightened though, you said you wanted a divorce, but you let me help you- you're _very_ beautiful-"

Callista was silent, staring at him.

"You kissed me," he offered, weakly.

"I kissed you," she echoed.

He nodded. "And then- and then you threw up, but it was alright. I helped you to your- _our_- room, and got you washed and in bed, and..." He was losing track of his words, and he worked his mouth, unable to bring more up.

_I was frightened_, he thought, _that you had left for good_.

_I couldn't pick a single girl at the Cat._

_I spent all afternoon talking about you_.

Callista touched her lips, lightly, her other arm wrapped tight around her waist. She wasn't really _very_ beautiful - some of the girls at the Cat had more pleasing features, had more voluptuous curves. But he liked how pinched her face was, and he liked her narrow hips, and he had definitely liked the way she kissed him.

He crossed the few feet she had put between them and stooped down a few inches to kiss her in turn.

Her hand was still by her mouth, and at first he thought she might push him away. But she touched his jaw, then his cheek, then slid that hand into his hair. The arm around her waist loosened and slid around his, instead. He gathered her up in his arms, exploring her thin lips, her warm mouth, feeling a rush of relief as she yielded to him.

Everything was going to be alright.

He forgot about his brothers, and his humiliation at the Cat, and any of the hundred other things that had torn at his pride over the last few weeks. The last few days had been horrific, but they were over. He kissed his wife, and she kissed back, and soon he had her up against a wall, only a few feet from their bedroom door. He could _do_ this. She wasn't drunk and she wasn't caught up in nightmares, and she had come home to him.

He pressed his body against hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She was shaking, but so was he. He felt giddy, and nervous, and ecstatic, all at once. His hands trailed down the length of her body, sliding over the firm curves of her corset, pressing into the soft flesh of her hips. His mouth left hers and he trailed kisses down her throat, the way that had always made his maids squeal and giggle. It made Callista gasp and arch, her hands fluttering against his scalp and shoulders, unsure of where to land.

It was endearing. She'd claimed that she was no stranger to being wooed and fucked, but she acted virginal all the same.

He didn't care if she had been lying then, or was lying now.

He got his knee between her legs, and he stretched up along her, grinding his thigh between hers. She whimpered, cheeks flushing. He kissed his way back to the shell of her ear, then nibbled at it, drawing another cry from her.

"You came _back_," he breathed, and shut his eye as he worked his body against her. He could feel himself growing hard, and he pushed against her hip. "You came back to me. I thought- I thought-"

His words trailed off with a groan. She felt _good_. She felt better than she had any right to. He had to get her undressed. _Had_ to, or he might die. He leaned back, just enough to fumble at her clothing.

And she _helped_.

She was silent, but he didn't think much of it. She was staring at him, looking _stunned_, but he barely marked it. He focused wholly on getting her jacket undone, then her trousers. Her corset could wait. He'd get to see her naked enough in the days to come. No, he had to be _inside _of her.

But as he reached for his trousers, he realized with a sinking feeling that he was no longer hard.

"What is it?" Callista asked when he didn't move.

His cheeks burned. This wasn't- this wasn't the first time this had happened, but it was the most ill-timed. He let go of his trousers and tried to kiss her again, instead. He rocked against her hip. It felt _good_, but his cock only stirred a little. He panted, desperately, and grabbed her hand, guiding it to his groin.

Callista bit her lip. He watched for a moment as her brow furrowed, as she rubbed at him and was rewarded only with flaccid flesh.

"I- I- give me a moment-" he said, stepping back. "M-maybe go- go undress- maybe-"

It was all that damn _port_ that Ramsey had given him. Shaking, he turned away from her, rubbing at his sweat-beaded brow. Had to be the port. If- if he just waited a little- perhaps if they rolled about in bed together, if he could see her breasts-

He glanced over his shoulder. Callista had pulled her jacket shut again, and was working at the fasteners on his trousers.

"N-no!" Treavor said. "I swear, I just need- I just- _Wallace!_"

Maybe _he'd_ have a solution.

Callista shook her head, then stammered, "Maybe- maybe we should take separate rooms. Just for tonight. I- I can't-"

His heart fell, and he swore. There was a bottle by her desk. He went to it, only to find it empty. His hands shook uncontrollably. All he wanted was to go to Callista, kiss her again, woo her and take her to bed.

His cock remained soft in his trousers.

There was a knock at the office door.

"I need some time," Callista said. "I- I need some time to think-"

He looked at her, feeling lost all over again. She was _lovely_, and he wanted her, and she had kissed him back. Why was he incapable of doing this? Why couldn't he just _have_ her?

"I want you," he blurted.

Callista said nothing.

"I _do_. I want you- I want you more than the girls at the Cat, I want you more than-"

"_What_?" Callista said, head jerking up. Her brow furrowed. She looked- _hurt_.

_Why did you mention the Cat, you _**_idiot_**_?_

There was another knock, followed by Wallace's, "Master Curnow? You called?"

"Is that- is that where you were? Is that where Wallace went? He said he was going to- to a Dr. Galvani's, on Clavering, and I was _stupid_ and trusted him. I can't believe-"

"I- that's not it- I didn't mean-"

He trailed off. He should have been relieved; Callista didn't shout at him to get out. She only sagged back against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

"I _went_," he admitted, coming closer. "But I didn't _do_ anything. You have to believe me."

It shouldn't have mattered, or been any of her business. And yet the words tasted sour in his own mouth. He couldn't imagine how they sounded to her. She kept her face covered.

He reached out and touched her shoulder.

She flinched as if burned.

"I didn't _want_ any of them," he pleaded. "But I was so scared you'd never come back."

Wallace knocked a third time.

"Please leave," Callista said at last, not dropping her hands. "I- I need you to leave. There's a room on the third floor, I had it readied for you, in case- in case you needed it. Please use it."

Treavor swallowed.

"You're _very_ beautiful," he said, voice strangled.

And then he left, joining Wallace in the hall without a word.

.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter 8_**

Callista sat at tea in the grandest room she'd ever been in. True, Pendleton Manor's reception hall, where she'd married Treavor, had been larger - but the Ladies Boyle kept their estate in flawless repair, updating details and decor every season. All around her were gilded fixtures, gemstone flourishes, and fine fabrics.

She would have felt out of place even if she hadn't still been shaken from the night before. She could remember the sensation of Treavor's hands on her, and her uncertain flares of desire - and the following devastation - all too well. As it was, she tried to mask it all. She didn't want the four women she sat with to notice it.

They were seated at a round, intimate little table that fit all of them with just enough elbow room for an illusion of privacy. Waverly Boyle sat almost directly across from her, with Lydia and Esma on either side. Between Lydia and Callista sat Lady Shaw, whose honey-gold hair tumbled in loose curls down her back, completely out of fashion and striking because of it. All the women wore beautifully tailored and distinct outfits.

Callista sat in her wedding suit, because it was the finest thing she owned.

Esma put a delicate pastry on Callista's plate. It was filled with custard and berries, and was a fancier version of something Callista's grandmother had made, out on her farm twenty miles from Dunwall. Callista fought back the wave of sadness.

"Has Treavor been treating you well?" Esma asked. She was smiling, but Callista could see no depth in it, no true concern.

"He has," Callista returned, as evenly as she was able to.

"And yet," Lady Shaw interrupted, "I hear you took a small vacation without him?"

Callista froze. "I... wasn't aware that was common knowledge," she said, slowly. None of the old maids had been there when she left with her uncle. Only Wallace and Creighton had known, and, she supposed, the maids Treavor had hired the next day. Suddenly she knew what Treavor must have felt when he ordered the first round fired.

"I ran into Miss White - have you met her? - at the dressmaker's early this morning. She said she heard it from Mr. Ramsey."

_Ramsey_. The name sounded familiar. Treavor had- met with him on business two nights ago, if she remembered correctly. "Oh. I see. Yes, I visited with my uncle for a day."

Esma laughed. "Come now, Georgette. Don't you remember the first few weeks of your marriage? I know when _I_ married my late husband, I couldn't get away from him fast enough."

Callista eyed Esma's feline smile cautiously.

"It wasn't that," Callista said, slowly. "I simply missed my uncle, and don't expect to have much time to see him in the coming months. Treavor and I have several business endeavors we're gearing up for."

Waverly let out a small snort, raising her cup to her lips.

"Is something the matter?" Callista asked, shoulders tensing.

Waverly sipped at her tea a moment before setting it back down. "Treavor is a decent businessman, but he is covetous and ill-tempered," she said. "And I would not trust him with _my_ money."

"I never said that I did," she returned, then flushed, looking down at her untouched plate. "I must approve all expenditures."

That drew a laugh from Lydia. "_Oh_, but that's lovely! I'm glad to know you've got such a good head on your shoulders, Mrs. Curnow. It's very reassuring. He _needs_ a woman like that. That's why he used to be so fixated on Waverly, you know - he's drawn to women who will stomp on his balls a bit."

They all looked to Waverly, who took another sip of tea, then said, "But he'll run if you actually cross him. He's infuriating. Best to keep an eye on him - and a leash, if you have any desire to keep him."

Esma leaned in, and began to cut up Callista's pastries with her fork, as if Callista were a child. "Treavor tried to court Waverly several times. It never went well for him, I'm afraid. Does he know you're here? Perhaps he's going to use you to get back in her good favor."

Callista clasped her hands in her lap. "He doesn't know. He only knows that I'm out."

That led to soft murmurs around the table. She shooed Esma from her plate and nibbled at the bits of pastry, keeping her eyes down.

"Is it true," Lady Shaw said after a moment, "that you were a _governess_ until very recently?"

"Yes," she said, not looking at her. Her voice was growing tighter. She couldn't tell if they were all mocking her, or if this was simply how upper class women interacted.

"_Hm_, it's a shame I didn't know about you before I sent my daughter off to White Cliff," Esma sighed, sitting back.

"If you didn't hear about her," Waverly said, "it was because she wasn't good enough at her job. I brought you a list of only the finest."

"Perhaps I didn't _want_ the finest. Perhaps I want the most _fun_."

"That is not the point of a governess," Waverly said.

Esma rolled her eyes. "For _you_, maybe." She settled her hand on Callista's elbow, and offered her a soft smile. She was incredibly beautiful; Callista shied away.

Treavor had said she was beautiful last night - but he'd also been drunk enough that he was impotent.

"I was not a very good governess," she admitted. "I wouldn't have known where to begin with a lady's daughter. I worked more with businessmen's children."

"_That_ would be the other reason," Waverly sighed. "Though I suppose it's all for the best. That's what your children will be, after all Mrs. Curnow."

Lady Shaw laughed. "How _is_ Treavor doing, now that he's had his title stripped away?"

"Does he insist on you calling him _Lord Treavor_ in private?" Lydia asked, leaning in. Her eyes glittered. She was less beautiful than her sisters or Lady Shaw, but still tiers above Callista's plain, dull features.

"He does not," she said, curtly.

"Incredible!" Esma said with a peal of laughter. Callista watched as she added a dash of whiskey from a small crystal decanter to her cup. Her cheeks were full of high color. "Let us submit a report to Sokolov - a treatise on the habits of lordlings as they adapt to new habitats."

"He wouldn't be interested," Waverly returned. "If you want to see that odious man again, just take the car to his house. He'll be sure to let you in, if you agree to strip down and model for him."

"I see no problem with that, dear sister," Esma said, adding another dose of whiskey. She drank the spiked tea down gleefully. "Hm, Mrs. Curnow- will you come with me?"

Callista caught herself frowning, and took a deep breath, struggling to wipe the expression from her face. "Who is this- Sokolov?"

Lady Shaw shook her head. Waverly rolled her eyes. Lydia leaned across Lady Shaw's spot, though, and said, "Oh, darling. You _must_ meet him. He's a wretched Tyvian who always smells of cunt and booze, but he's the head of the Royal Academy _and_ paints the greatest pictures in all of Gristol. He hasn't painted our portraits in many years, and trust me - people begin to notice."

"He painted the Pendletons once," Lady Shaw sighed. "He managed to make even Treavor look mildly healthy and alert, and almost handsome. Still, Morgan and Custis do rightfully steal every viewer's attention."

"I wonder," Lydia mused, "if they'll cut the canvas now that Treavor's no longer in the family. Do you remember how they were all posed? _Could_ Treavor be entirely removed?"

Callista thought back, remembered a glimpse of a painting of the three Pendletons in the entrance hall of the manor. She felt herself hunch forward slightly. Treavor was certainly better off without his brothers, but the reminder that she had ruined his standing and legacy was- unwanted.

"Will you come with me?" Esma asked again, her arm snaking around Callista's in a mockery of sisterly affection. "We can plead your case for a portrait. He'll certainly be amenable once you remind him that you're the richest woman in all of Dunwall. I think he could even make you look attractive - perhaps from the right angle, with a flattering lack of clothing? It could be a wedding gift to your husband."

Callista turned bright red. "I- I think I'll have to decline, Lady Esma," she said, wishing she had her own decanter of whiskey. "Treavor and I have much to discuss today."

"That business deal with Ramsey, is it?" Lady Shaw asked with a sigh. "Montgomery thinks it's a rotten idea. His empire's teetering. Rothwild is putting him out of business. The whole industry is disgusting, if you ask me - I'm glad we have it, and I'm glad we have all that whale oil, but the rest of it is blood and guts and rot."

"Ramsey's more _personable_ than Rothwild, though," Esma put in. But Callista was already beginning to withdraw, the conversation growing distant and abstract as she focused only on her tea and pastry. Eventually, the women forgot her.

When she excused herself, they barely looked up.

* * *

Callista returned home to chaos. As she stepped through the door, there was a loud crashing from the direction of the kitchen, followed by shouts - angry, wretched shouts, and more than one growl - and then a flash of yellow and brown as _something_ darted across the entry hall and into the library. It was smaller than a wolfhound, but larger than a cat, and she turned to look at Creighton.

Creighton looked sheepish. "We'll, ah, have it under control in a moment, ma'am."

"What-"

"Leave it alone!" came Treavor's voice, as he slammed the dining room doors, apparently in the cook's face. His shoulders heaved.

Creighton cleared his throat.

Treavor turned, slowly, then paled as he saw Callista.

"Ah. Callista," he said, voice tight and high. He adjusted his cravat. "I- I didn't think you'd be home so soon-"

She lifted a brow, then pointed to the library. No sounds came from it.

"Um, yes. That- that would be something called an 'ocelot'. From Pandyssia. Related to cats, according to the Academy." Treavor cleared his own throat, and smoothed down his rumpled jacket. There were numerous slashes in his sleeves, she noticed, and more than one spot of dried blood.

"What's it doing in the house?" she asked, hoping it was an accident of some kind. She felt weak. The Boyle estate had been bad enough, but she wasn't sure she was ready to have a _beast_ living in her home.

Treavor licked his lips, considered, and then said, "She's- a wedding present. For you."

Callista stared a moment longer, then wrinkled her nose as a sharp, acrid scent reached her. "And _what_ is that _smell_?"

"She's, ah. Well. She may have- urinated on- on some of the baseboards-"

"_Treavor_," she said, her voice dropping to a low warning. First, he humiliated her by avoiding her, then by going to the Golden Cat, and now by bringing some wretched animal here to wreck her home? She scrubbed at her face with her hands.

Treavor was at her side in an instant, fingers brushing against her wrists before he pulled back. "I- I can send her back. Or to the Academy. I just thought- I thought she was very beautiful. My brothers' ships brought a few back late last year. One turned out to be- well, she had a kitten, who is now in the other room, and they _said_ she was suitable to a house with the correct handling-"

His hands finally settled on her wrists, and she allowed him to lower her hands.

"She's a beautiful beast," he said, "but if you want her gone, or skinned, or mounted, I- I can do that, too. I just thought..."

He was hurt. Hurt, and terrified - of _her_.

"Let me see the thing," Callista sighed.

Hope sprang up in his eyes, and he laced their hands together and drew her over to the library. She didn't particularly want to be touched, but she allowed it, following sedately. The library was remarkably intact, given the chaos she'd heard from the kitchen. In fact, it looked entirely empty.

And then she looked up and saw a large cat-like creature lying across the top of a bookshelf, a whole duck, only half-plucked, hanging from its jaws.

"That's her," Treavor said, voice going quiet with a kind of awe. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Callista had to concede that, at least. The cat had beautiful speckled spots, and was graceful as it dragged the carcass up higher onto the shelf and pinned it in place with a large front paw so that it could rip at its flesh. It wore a jeweled collar.

"She's- she's yours," Treavor continued. "To do with as you wish. As... as am I. So I thought it would be a good wedding present."

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. "I hope you're not implying that _you_ intend to urinate on the baseboards," she said.

He went very pale, then very red, and then laughed, uncomfortably. "I- I should _hope_ not. I... do you like her? At all? _Damn it_, I should have- should have done something different- I just wanted you to have something _unique_." He had taken his hands from hers and was wringing them, anxiously.

"It's- she's-" Callista tried, then sighed, covering her mouth and looking up at the creature. It was taking a break from its snacking to rest its head on the edge of the bookshelf.

She met its eyes.

It growled.

"She's a bit feral," Callista settled on. "Do you know if she'll eat rats?"

"I'm sure she will."

"They won't be too small for her?"

He shook his head. "Not with those Pandyssian rats in the city these days. And those are the worst, anyway. Aggressive, from what I've heard. She'll be a blessing."

Callista grimaced. "She- she is lovely," she conceded. "But I'll have to think on it."

Treavor's shoulders sagged. He cleared his throat and turned from her. "I suppose that's reasonable," he managed.

There was a knock at the front door, clearly audible even from the library.

Callista looked back up at the- what had Treavor called it?- _ocelot_. "Can you get that duck from her? She's going to make the books rot."

"I'll- see what I can do," he said, just as Creighton appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, sir- but there's a messenger here with a package for Mrs. Curnow."

Treavor turned on him and snarled, "Then accept the package, and we'll look at it later! First you offer to send a _maid_ up to help me undress, and now this. Where did they find you, man?"

"Mr. Creighton used to be a lower watchman," Callista interjected. "My uncle was going to promote him, but he expressed interest in a slightly less dangerous occupation." She'd even gotten the doorman wrong, she thought with an inward groan. "Nevermind, I'll go see the man," she said, and left the two there, Creighton fumbling apologies to Treavor, and Treavor staring after her.

At the door was a courier in very fine dress, down to his clean white gloves. He bowed as she came to the door.

"Mrs. Curnow?"

She nodded. Behind her, she could hear Treavor's footsteps. "Yes?"

"Mr. Jack Ramsey sends this as a token of his good wishes for your marriage," he said, and extended two small packages, finely wrapped. One was small and light, the other large and heavy. She took both.

_More wedding presents_?

"Ah- tell him thank you," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Treavor. He'd gone suddenly very pale. She looked back to the courier. "My husband and I appreciate his well-wishes."

The courier nodded, and retreated without another word. Creighton came up beside her to shut the door. "I was wondering when those would start coming," Creighton said. "I guess everybody was waiting to see what would happen with you and your husband."

Treavor made a low noise in his throat. Creighton flushed.

"Not- not meaning to imply anything untoward-" he mumbled.

"Creighton," Callista said, feeling the beginnings of a horrible headache, "please take the rest of the day off. I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, stay right there," Treavor snapped. "If this really _is_ the beginning of a trend, I'd like you to get some practice in with doing your job without bothering us."

Creighton looked between them.

Callista closed her eyes and counted to ten, then said, "My husband is right. _Tomorrow_, though, you will take a half-day. Accepta- _Understood_?"

Creighton nodded with a mumbled _Yes Ma'am_.

Callista sighed and bundled her packages close to her chest, then moved towards the stairs. Treavor trailed behind her.

"Ramsey said he might send something over," Treavor said as they climbed up to the second story. "I'll admit- I may have rushed my decision on your gift a little. I could hardly be the _second_ person to give you a gift."

"I thought husbands weren't supposed to give wedding presents to their wives at all," she commented as she stepped into the study and went to deposit the boxes on her desk.

Treavor said nothing. When she circled around the desk, she saw him looking distinctly unhappy.

"I wanted to make you happy," he said at last. "To make you feel _wanted_."

"Then perhaps," she said, beginning to undo the wrapping, "you shouldn't have gone to the Cat three days after we were married."

"I didn't _do_ anything!" he snapped, voice rising in volume and pitch. He caught himself and took several uneven breaths, dragging himself back under control. He rubbed at his jaw and mouth. "I told you- I didn't know if you were coming back. I went to the Cat, met with my _brothers_, and then left. Without giving a single coin to a- to one of the ladies there. I spent the rest of the day with Jack Ramsey."

She looked away. She didn't want to think about where he'd been or what he'd done. Down _that_ path lay the realization that she was jealous. _Jealous_. She hated that he had gone to the Cat not because it humiliated her - though it did - but because he'd wanted another woman.

He was a nobleman, or had been, she reminded herself. This was simply the way of things.

She pulled open the wrapping paper on the smaller box to reveal a small jewelry case. Silent, she opened it. A white bone pendant rested inside on a bed of red velvet. It was carved to look like a miniature whale skull, complete in every detail. She lifted it up, running her thumb along the nubs of tiny teeth.

She heard Treavor swear and move to pour himself a glass of liquor.

Setting the small box aside, she carefully undid the paper on the larger package. Inside were three beautifully bound books, all treatises on the sea and whales. One was an illustrated study on whale anatomy, and she opened it and trailed her fingers over the pages.

"I _told_ him about that," Treavor spat. She looked up. He was glaring at the gifts. "I told him you loved the sea. And he turns around and- and gives you presents totally out of keeping with his relationship with you. I can't believe this. I can't believe _him_, the lying, sneaking _bastard_."

She didn't know how to respond. The gifts were beautiful, thoughtful. They were more _hers_ than the beast lurking downstairs. Carefully, she shut the book and took a step back, her thoughts racing, tumbling over one another.

The jealous, angry part of her wanted to lash out and tell him that perhaps if he'd actually thought about her and not his pride, he could have picked out similar gifts.

The sad, lonely part of her wanted to remind him that _he_ had told Ramsey about her interests.

All that came out, though, was, "How did you know? That I liked whales?"

"You told me," he said, his tone strangled. She looked up to find him downing two fingers' worth of whiskey. He hissed and sucked on his teeth, then said, "Two days ago, when I was cleaning you up. You told me you wanted to be a whaler, as a girl."

"I told you-"

"I thought it was _charming_," he said. "I- I offered to take you to Serkonos, or Tyvia, for our honeymoon. I wanted to go. Very badly. I _want_ to go."

Her heart began to pound in her chest, the way it had when he'd kissed her and told her he was afraid that she was going to leave him. _Charming_. She'd offered up the most vulnerable part of herself, and he'd found it endearing.

Her anger ebbed, just a little, just enough.

"Then that can be your wedding present," she said, with a small, sad smile. "Better than an- _ocelot_."

He was silent for a long moment, not looking at her, then said, "It would have to be your present to me, I'm afraid. I signed over much of my remaining purse to Ramsey this morning, while you were out. The _bastard_. His timing was wonderful. He had these presents already, but he didn't send them until-"

"Until we went into business with him." She tried not to think about Lady Shaw's cautions. "He is our _business partner_, and a close one, right? It's only natural to send us appropriate gifts." She crossed to him, laid a gentle hand on his elbow. "I'll pay for the trip. I want to go."

He stared at his glass. "I'll get rid of the cat."

"Let's wait a few days," she said. "See if it calms down."

"_She_."

"See if _she_ calms down." Callista peered at him. "Have you- thought of a name for her?"

"She's your cat," Treavor returned, looking at where her hand still rested on his arm. His response had been grudging.

Callista found herself smiling. "You _did_ pick out a name."

"It doesn't matter," Treavor said.

"Tell me," she said, easing the glass from his hand. "I'll buy the excursion for me, and you have your ocelot for you. Perhaps we'll start a trend."

He wrinkled his nose. "That wasn't my _plan_," he sighed, then added, barely whispering, "Her name's Babou."

Callista's smile broadened. "Then we shall see how Babou adjusts. Acceptable?"

He looked at her, then set his glass aside with a sigh. "I think," he said, "that I must be going crazy. We're- we're doing this whole thing wrong."

The words sounded familiar. Callista paused to try to place them, then drew away as somebody knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Curnow?"

It was Wallace. She frowned, going to the door and opening it. Treavor lingered behind her.

"Several gifts have arrived for you downstairs, Mrs. Curnow," he said. "Including a tailor who has been sent by Lady Shaw."

* * *

Treavor left for the Parliament building when it became clear that he wasn't welcome in the study as the tailor worked. For her part, Callista wasn't so sure she was happy to see him go. Her pride was still pricked, and she was still desperately upset, deep down, that he had gone to the Cat the day before- but she also found that she trusted him. If he said he hadn't indulged, then he hadn't.

It was a much greater relief than simply telling herself that his trip was normal, understandable, unremarkable.

She was grateful that he wasn't there to see her being measured and pinned into muslin shells, but she wished he was there to stand with her against the tailor's unimpressed gaze. She had taken one look at Callista's red suit, declared it five years out of fashion, and had seemed to _know_ - perhaps from Callista's flush - that she'd worn it to her wedding without an inkling.

Callista answered a smattering of questions about her favorite colors and fabrics, but her answers were uneducated and ill-formed. The tailor didn't seem to mark them at all, and Callista wouldn't be surprised if she ignored all of them and simply followed her professional sense of what was _good_ - or whatever instructions Lady Shaw had given her. Callista could only hope they were generous, condescending instructions.

She hoped that Lady Shaw was the sort to take pleasure in assisting her inferiors, rather than the type who delighted in leading them astray.

The tailor was packing up her bag and Callista was looking down at herself - the tailor had insisted on helping her dress, and had done a neater job than Callista had by far - when there was another knock at the door.

Strange- since she'd shut herself in with the tailor, Wallace hadn't come to update her on the arrival of any new gifts. "Yes?" she called out.

"You have guests, ma'am," Wallace's voice returned. "I would have waited until you were through your session, but I'm afraid they're- insistent."

"Insistent?" Callista asked, frowning. She went to the door, opening it so that they could cease shouting. "What do you mean, insistent? Is- has something happened to my husband?" The thought came suddenly, unbidden and unexpected. Treavor was out speaking to a few government officials, or at least trying to get an audience with them. Nothing could have happened to him, unless- unless he'd had a fit-

Wallace didn't look panicked, though. He looked exasperated.

"It's your brothers-in-law, Mrs. Curnow," he said, lowering his voice.

Callista frowned, then took a deep breath. She glanced over her shoulder. The tailor was hovering nearby. Swallowing, she stepped out into the hall with Wallace. "Have you informed them that my husband will be out for a while longer?"

"I have. They are not to be dissuaded - mainly because they came to see _you_."

Callista's world drew in, and she only distantly felt herself put a hand to her chest, fingers curling in response to the onrush of fear and wariness. Did they know about her dispute with Treavor the other day? Did they know that Geoff had lied to them about how much access their brother - and therefore, _they_ - would have to her money?

They couldn't. She told herself that until she felt able to speak again.

Wallace spoke first, though. "They've come to offer congratulations, and have brought wedding presents," he said. "Though I would be- cautious." He glanced back towards the stairs, then leaned in and murmured, "I have seen the look they wear before. It would be rude of me to say they were dangerous, but-"

"I understand," Callista said.

She didn't, not really, but the more Wallace spoke, the worse her nerves were getting. She cleared her throat. "Show Miss Washburn out then, Mr. Higgins?" she said, glancing back at the tailor who was waiting at a discreet distance.

"The Lords Pendleton are down in the library," he said, stepping past her. "I've had the cooks prepare coffee - they prefer it, and I made sure to purchase some for their inevitable visits. They will likely make sharp comments about the staff, though that will be at least partially deserved - none are polished yet. Keep your chin up, Mrs. Curnow."

Callista swallowed, then descended the steps and turned to the library.

The twins sat on the couch, one at either end. The one she was fairly certain was Morgan sat back with one ankle crossed over his knee, his arms spread out along the back and arm of the couch. Custis sat forward, his elbows braced on his spread legs. He focused on her the moment she entered.

Morgan stared up at Babou's perch. The ocelot hadn't moved in the last two hours, now stretched out for a luxurious nap.

The room stank of fowl and blood.

"So is _that_ what little Treavor sent to our menagerie for?" Morgan asked, without even looking at her. "A _housecat_?"

"It's a shame your servants are so lax on cleaning up after it," Custis added, gaze locked on her, lips curling. "The house reeks."

"She tore one of the girl's arms open," Callista said. At least, that had been Wallace's last report. "It's... a work in progress."

"I can shoot it dead for you, if you like," Morgan said, slowly looking towards her. "Or maybe give me a knife, and we'll see how dangerous it _really_ is."

"That won't be necessary," Callista said, moving to the chair across from them.

"Ah, ah," Custis said, and she halted. "You can certainly sit there if you _want_, dear... sister," he drawled, "but I think our feline friend has staked her claim."

Frowning, she peered at the seat. It was covered in fur- and as she circled 'round it, she saw that the other side had been torn to shreds. It smelled faintly of musk.

_Dammit, Treavor_, she thought, but she managed a faint smile. "So she has," Callista said.

Morgan's smirk widened somewhat, and he patted the cushion between him and his brother. "Sit over here with us."

It wasn't a request.

She eyed them cautiously, then lifted her chin a fraction of an inch and crossed to the couch. She settled herself primly between them. It was hard to relax back into the cushions.

Morgan slipped a silver case from his pocket and selected a finely rolled cigarette. Custis leaned across her to light it for him. She fought hard not to flinch at their nearness, at the way they had caged her in, smoke filling her nose and muddling her head.

"Would you like one?" Morgan asked, exhaling fragrant fumes into the narrow space between them. Custis sat back slowly.

"No, thank you," she said. She swallowed. "There- is coffee being prepared for the both of you. It should be brought in soon enough."

"_Coffee_," drawled Custis. "Did Treavor tell you we prefer it to your watery tea? Or was it Higgins?"

"Probably Higgins," Morgan said. He waved a hand. "So, tell me - does our baby brother make a good husband?" Something wicked glinted in his eyes.

He'd heard the rumors, then.

"He makes a fine husband," she said.

"Yes," Custis purred, leaning in again. "Yes, he _must_, to have the idea of giving his wife a wild beast to care for and clean up after."

"We've brought you better gifts," Morgan said. He twisted at the waist, and plucked a small box from where he'd slipped it between his thigh and the couch. Cigarette held between two fingers, he offered the box to Custis, who opened it.

Inside was a beautiful jeweled necklace, made of fine Pendleton silver and glittering stones so large she didn't trust that they could be real. Her breath caught.

"_Treavor_ can't exactly give you Pendleton finery anymore," Morgan drawled. "So we're here to make up for it. This belonged to our grandmother. Dreadfully out of style in some ways," he added, "but I think it suits you."

She managed not to flinch at the jab.

"It's lovely," she said.

"There are more, of course. We've left them with your doorman," Custis said as he slipped his hands into the box and lifted the cascade of metal and gems. He leaned close to her, draping it around her throat. His breath was warm on her ear as he fastened it. It was tight, almost a collar, and as she swallowed, her throat bobbed against it. She reached up to touch it.

"I'd wager," Custis murmured, "that it's the nicest thing you own now."

She couldn't see his expression, but she could see Morgan's feral grin. He was watching her closely, even as he tipped his head back and let out a jet of smoke from his nose and mouth. She shivered. "It very well might be," she said.

"After all," Custis continued, "you hardly have the good taste to find pieces of comparable beauty, and you don't have the _legacy_ needed to obtain items with history. And given that you're keeping baby brother out of your _purse_-"

His hand was still on the necklace. She only realized that as he pulled it, forcing her to lean back, to tip her chin up. Her heart, which had already been thudding loud in her ears, began to race.

"Yes," Morgan said, voice low. "Yes, your _uncle_ told us Treavor would take over your wealth on the night of the marriage, and yet according to _him_, he needs your approval on every expenditure." His free hand left the couch, sliding onto her thigh. He gripped her leg tightly, fingers digging in.

"Those were business negotiations," Custis growled. "And you treated with us in bad faith, Mrs. Curnow."

"No, my _uncle_ did," she managed, weakly. "You understood that he had no real say in the fortune. He did not tell _me_ that he had lied to you."

"You expect us to believe that?" Custis murmured.

Morgan shrugged, hand sliding a little further up her leg. "Do you really think she could be that conniving, brother?" he asked, voice deceptively light. "Surely a woman as middling clever as that would have bedded poor Treavor at the first chance, to legitimize the marriage? Not that it couldn't still be dissolved," he added, "but it would have to come from him, not us."

Her eyes widened.

Custis hummed deep in his chest. "I think you might be right, brother," he said. "I don't think she _knew_ that without consummation, we can lodge a complaint against the union. After all, the marriage clearly is not in our family's best interest. We've gained nothing from it, only been taken from. We have a right to our property back - and, I suppose, our brother."

"I-"

"That would be humiliating, though, wouldn't it?" Morgan sighed. "So here's our proposal, to make everything just that much simpler. Sign over your fortune to Treavor. You don't even have to sleep with him if you don't want to - we'll understand."

His hand inched a little further up her leg, and then he shifted, settling one knee on the couch cushion, looming over her. His hand found her waist. Custis, behind her, kept a hand on the necklace and looped his arm around her ribs, hauling her back against him.

She let out only a weak sound of protest.

"We could even offer to _help_ with your little family problem. As long as it's _Pendleton_ blood, I don't see why there should be an issue, hm?" Morgan purred. He cupped her cheek with his other hand, the cigarette still braced between his fingers. Ash fell onto the couch cushion.

"That's not- that won't be necessary-" she stammered.

Morgan lifted a brow. He looked to his twin. "You'd choose _him_ over _us_?" he asked, voice dropping until it was barely audible, rumbling from his chest heavy with threat. He leaned in close, inspecting her. The muscles around his mouth tightened and twitched with barely restrained anger. His fingers pinched at her.

"Oh, now you've wounded his pride," Custis sighed.

Her mind raced. They had her trapped, caught between them too afraid to push back. All her training as a governess made her go rigid, then limp. None of her employers had ever made advances on her, but her uncle had warned her that if they did, her best bet was to not fight.

Men like Morgan and Custis Pendleton _enjoyed_ the fight - because it meant there was something for them to break.

"That's better," Morgan said as she relaxed under his touch. His breath ghosted across her lips, then her throat, and she screwed her eyes shut.

There was a knock at the door.

"Coffee, m'lords?" the maid said as she pushed open the library door. Morgan let go of Callista in a flash, and Custis too. She reeled, opening her eyes and flushing brightly.

The maid stared at them.

"Well, put the damn tray down, and get out!" Morgan snarled.

Custis, though, was already standing. "I think we've overstayed our _welcome_, brother. Think about our offer, Mrs. Curnow?"

Callista nodded, weakly.

Morgan gave her one last - _disgusted_, she thought - look as he pulled himself from the couch as well. He threw his cigarette onto the fine rug and ground it in with the toe of his shoe. His hair was slightly mussed, and she stared at the disheveled strands until he'd left the library.

Then her gaze went to the maid, who still stood holding the tray of coffee. Her eyes were wide and round.

"I'll appreciate your not mentioning this to anybody," Callista said, voice strangled. "Including my husband or the other maids. Is that clear?"

The girl nodded.

Callista nodded in turn, then stood. She was shaking, deep chest shudders, and she went to lean against the nearest bookshelf.

"Ma'am?" the maid said. "The... coffee...?"

"If anybody in the house wants any, they can have it," Callista said. "... If- when my husband returns, please tell him to come see me?"

The maid nodded, dropped a curtsy, and backpedalled from the room.

Above her, Callista heard a soft rumbling, and the _swish swish swish_ of a lashing tail. Slowly, she looked up.

Babou looked down at her, lazy and content, then casually pushed the remaining bits of duck over the edge of the shelf. They landed, bloody and foul, on the rug.

Callista closed her eyes and bit down the scream rising up inside her.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Chapter 9_**

Treavor stepped out of the car with a scowl on his face, and almost didn't see his brothers as he stalked to the door of the townhouse. When he did notice Custis's leer, he ignored it, though he made sure not to stomp up the few steps between him and home.

"Baby _brother_," Morgan called, and he stopped. He stared at the door, hoping Creighton would open it for him like he had last night.

He did not. Treavor turned, slowly.

The twins wore a coordinated pair of expressions, as they always did when they were together. Custis looked pleased and proud. Morgan looked wickedly amused as he sauntered up to the steps and looped an arm around Treavor's shoulders.

Treavor tried not to flinch as his brother forced him down the steps and onto the street - then into their waiting railcar, a nicer model than the one he'd just left, no doubt well-stocked with drink. Custis climbed in after, then shut the door.

When Treavor opened his mouth to protest, Morgan sighed, falling back onto his seat. "We're not _abducting_ you, Treavor."

"We simply have some information for you - important information," Custis drawled, opening the compartment to his left and pulling out a bottle of brandy. There were only two glasses. Treavor was at first relieved - he didn't want to drink with his brothers just then - but Custis poured the first slopping glass and passed it to him.

He took it, grudgingly. "I need to talk to my wife," he said. "I can't stay long."

"That's just it," Morgan said. "We were just in to talk to her."

Treavor twisted, lips drawing back in a snarl. "I thought I told you that you were _not_ to speak to her, you overbred ingrate-"

Custis snorted. "Treavor, really, look in a mirror sometime before you throw _that_ insult around."

"We were just bringing her a wedding present, like half the city is doing. The Boyles let us know that Lady Shaw was sending something over, and that they were considering it as well, so we thought it was only appropriate to join in the fun," Morgan purred. "Though I must say, baby brother, _your_ present was- unique."

"We're going to have it shot and mounted," Treavor snapped, feeling his cheeks heat. He didn't want to think of Morgan and Custis speaking to Callista, plying her with gifts. They were cruel, and they were angry with her.

"We gave her grandmother's necklace - the one with the kelp motif?" Custis provided. "The collar. It looks rather fetching on her. Laughably old fashioned, and it clashes with that hideous wedding suit of hers, but-"

"I told you not to speak to her," Treavor repeated, knocking back half his glass of brandy to cauterize the ache inside of him. He'd been _getting_ somewhere with her after she'd gotten back from the Boyle estate, and now, no doubt, she'd be frightened and withdrawn, angry at his whole line.

"Why not?" Morgan asked, grin turning wolfish. "Because you're afraid she'll like us better?"

"No, because-"

"Because she certainly does like us better," Custis added, lightly. "She's very, ah, _responsive_, baby brother. Shame you couldn't get her into bed, it's actually not that hard."

Treavor let out a strangled, confused noise. "You're lying," he said. His voice came out high and unsteady.

Morgan chuckled. "I don't think we are. We talked at length about your marital problems, and we offered to _help_. She was quite enamored with the whole idea. Leaned right back against Custis and let me mount her, right there in the library, with your pretty little housecat watching on."

_No_.

Blood roared in his ears. He staggered up in the cramped quarters of the car, glass tumbling from his hands. Custis swore as brandy splashed onto his pants. Morgan only laughed. Treavor fumbled with the latch.

"I think the whole mess is sorted now," Morgan said as Treavor forced the door and the dim light of the storm-drenched sky slashed into the compartment. "You should be _thanking_ us, baby brother - your humiliation is at an end."

Treavor stumbled out into the street, and didn't look back as he ran up the steps to his house. The door remained shut. He hammered on it with his fist, his collar feeling too tight, his clothing too warm. _Let me mount her_ repeated over and over again, and he swore he could still hear his brother's laughter.

It couldn't be true. Callista wouldn't- she would _never_- and yet if anybody could have wooed her, just to spite him, it would have been his brothers. Perhaps they were kind to her. Perhaps their _gifts_ had warmed her.

The door jerked open, a maid behind it.

"Oh, Mr. Curnow," the maid said, eyes widening at his twisted expression. "I- I- Mr. Creighton is on leave for the rest of the day-"

"Get out of my way," he snarled, pushing past her.

"Your wife- your wife asked me to send you up to her, when you returned."

He froze, bristling, then rounded on her. "_My wife_, eh? Does she have divorce papers ready, then, or is she finally deigning to spread her legs for me?"

The maid flushed, stumbling away from him. "I- I don't know, sir-"

"Tell me, what is my wife's disposition? Is she merry? Is she _sated_?" he asked, voice rising to a shrill pitch.

"I don't know-"

"And when did you see her last? How?"

It couldn't be true. Callista would never have- she _couldn't_ have- and yet he was picturing the scene vividly, Callista's breeches hauled down around her thighs, her hips tilted up so Morgan could get at her cunt. He could feel the tendons standing out on his throat.

The maid trembled, then bowed her head and said, "I... she asked me not to tell."

His world tilted, wildly, and he gripped hold of the back of Creighton's empty chair. "I hired you. You work for _me_. You- you'll tell me or I'll have you fired, do you understand?"

He could barely see her through his panic, but he thought she might have bowed her head. She came closer, and said, as softly as she could manage, "I- saw her with your brothers in the library, sir. They were- they were quite intimate. I-"

Before she could finish, his world went dark. The last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling, and the blessed freedom of no longer having to care.

* * *

Callista was on the stairs as he fell, roused from her study by the sound of his voice growing louder and louder. She ran down to him, but she only reached his side once he'd already struck the floor and was in the heat of another fit.

"Get Mr. Higgins!" she snapped at the maid standing, stunned, nearby. "Get him _now_!"

The maid hesitated, then scrambled away. Callista thought she heard the edge of a sob.

She turned her full attention to Treavor's spasming form, and quickly rolled him onto his side. She checked his nose and jaw for split skin or fractured bones, her movements surer than they'd been a few nights ago. Her terror of the twins evaporated in the face of his convulsions, and she steadied him, murmuring soothing words, stroking his brow.

By the time Wallace came running from the dining room, Treavor was still again. Callista looked up at him, shaking her head. "I don't know what set it off," she said, quickly. "He was already collapsing when I saw him."

"The maid was less than forthcoming," Wallace murmured as he dropped to one knee, sliding an arm beneath Treavor and pulling him up. She watched as he checked the smaller man's breathing and pulse. "She just cried. It was an oversight not mentioning Mr. Curnow's fits to the new staff." His voice was abstracted as he worked. "The idiot girl probably thinks she caused it."

"Well, what could have? His brothers left several minutes before he arrived."

Wallace's lips twitched towards a grimace. "It wouldn't be unlike them to have waited outside for him to return. How was your meeting with them?"

Callista opened her mouth, then bowed her head and closed her eyes. "It was- unpleasant," she said. "I would like to leave it at that."

"They likely told him something about it - possibly just that they had spoken to you privately."

Callista touched her throat. She'd removed the collar already, stuffed it away in a box, but she was certain that somebody would see the indentations it'd left in her skin. What had the twins told Treavor? That they'd terrorized her over the money? That they'd threaten to dissolve the marriage? That they'd pinned her between them and almost-

"Mrs. Curnow," Wallace said, sternly. "I need you to step back."

"I- I want to help," she stammered. "I want to help him."

"You're the mistress of this house, Mrs. Curnow. This is _my_ job. If you want to be of some use, go up to your study." He stared her down, then glanced to Treavor and added, "And perhaps leave the doors open between here and there, if you're so minded."

Shaking, Callista nodded and rose to her feet. Leaving Treavor's side seemed like a horrible idea. She hadn't left him at their wedding; she'd been with him until Wallace deposited him in that chair, groggy but okay. Now, she made herself climb the stairs and go to her study, then the bedroom, propping open each door as wide as she could.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. If she hadn't turned him away the night before, if she hadn't gotten so selfishly, stupidly _jealous_, maybe this wouldn't have happened. None of this would have happened. She could have stood up to the twins, and Treavor would have been at ease, and whatever happened at Parliament and on his way home wouldn't have pushed him to- this.

Behind her, Wallace stepped into the room and passed to the bed, settling Treavor down. He worked to loosen the unconscious man's cravat. Callista watched as he undid the buttons of Treavor's waistcoat, then gently removed his shoes.

"You're- very good to him," she said. "I'm grateful that he has you to help him."

Wallace simply glanced up at her, then went to call for some water to be brought up.

Callista watched Treavor as he slowly began to stir. He moaned, helplessly, and she moved to the bed. Caring for him, she felt, might be the only thing between her and a nervous breakdown. She perched on the edge and stroked his brow. She couldn't bear telling him what his brothers had threatened her - _them_ - with. It would distress him. It could set off another fit. She could only hope that the twins hadn't already told him, and that he wouldn't see the panic in her eyes.

His eyelids fluttered. He mumbled something incoherent, then opened his eyes. They focused slowly on her.

He stared.

"You're okay," Callista murmured, cupping his cheek. "You had another fit, in the hall, but Wallace is getting you some water."

She had visions of him smiling at her, of him responding to her care and rallying triumphantly.

But instead he jerked away from her touch, then slurred, "Get _away_ from me."

She pulled back, brow furrowing and lips parting in desperate confusion. His fingers scrabbled at his clothing until he found his handkerchief. Pulling it free, he brought it to his nose and lips, and inhaled desperately.

Wallace stepped back into the room, and Treavor fixed on him immediately. "Pillows," he rasped, and Wallace went to him, lifting him and propping him up using all the cushions on the bed. Callista's hands itched to help. She watched, helpless, as Wallace closed his fingers over the handkerchief and plucked it away.

"Give it back," Treavor snarled.

"It dulls your senses," Wallace responded, glancing up to Callista for just a moment, "and slows your recovery."

Callista looked searchingly at the manservant, but Wallace only shot her another warning look. She caught the slight tang of laudanum on the air.

Treavor grimaced, his gaze wandering. It settled on her.

"Get her _out_ of here," he snapped.

Wallace frowned. "That's your wife," he said, slowly. "She's concerned about your wellbeing."

"I know who she is! And I said get her out, Wallace."

Callista swallowed. "I'm- here to help, Treavor," she said, shaking, reaching out for him again.

"_Help_," he sneered, lips pulling back over his teeth. "Were you _helping_ when you spread your legs for Morgan, then?"

Callista froze. The panic reared up inside her again, hemmed in by anger. "I did no such thing," she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

"Well, I heard it from _him_ first, and then the maid said she'd seen all three of you being _intimate_." He spat out each word, face growing red again. He seemed unable to look her in the face, and she struggled against the urge to grab his chin, wrench it around. Instead, she sat motionless as he said, "Get out, you- you lying-"

"_Think_ about the men your brothers are," Wallace interrupted. "What is more likely - that our Mrs. Curnow would respond to them, or that they would have- pressured her?"

"The _maid_-"

"The maid was my salvation," Callista said, voice clipped and sharp. "She brought in coffee. Interrupted what your brothers were doing. I have never been more grateful for hired help in my entire life, Treavor."

His brow contorted in pain, but he shook his head. He wasn't _listening_.

She hunched over him.

"They _threatened_ me," she hissed, heart cracking. She'd thought he'd understand. That he'd be frightened, angry, but not at _her_. "And what was I supposed to do? Strike them? Shout for help, in my own home?"

"I take responsibility," Wallace said. "I should not have allowed Mrs. Curnow to meet with them alone."

Treavor's anger and pain didn't seem to budge. She couldn't tell if he was horrified, or sympathetic. She didn't need this - couldn't take this. She swallowed, thickly, and withdrew.

"I'll leave you alone, then," she said. She needed space to breathe. She needed to scrub at her skin. That Treavor believed that she would have yielded-

"Get out," Treavor mumbled.

And Callista did.

* * *

The first of the garments from Lady Shaw arrived early the next morning. One of the maids brought it up to her where she sat in the spare bedroom. She thanked the girl, then looked once more at the papers spread out on the vanity as the door shut again.

This was the only tactic she had left. It would have to be enough. The marriage would be salvaged, not dissolved; she'd become certain of it shortly after retreating from Treavor's room. The easier thing would have been to turn away from him and his distrust, but she refused to.

She would solve the problem of the twins on her own. He would understand later, and perhaps be grateful, when he was willing to think clearly again.

Treavor had refused to see her for the rest of last night, and had slept alone in their room, claiming fatigue from the fit. According to Wallace, he'd only gotten out of bed to pace, and today, he'd be spending his time at Ramsey's club. What he was thinking, she couldn't be sure. No doubt his thoughts tended to his brothers' lies, but whether or not he fretted about her safety or her guilt, she couldn't know. She only knew that_ Wallace_ believed her, and that would have to be enough.

He'd served her dinner in the spare room the night before, as indecorous as it was, and while their conversation had been brief, it had settled some of her nerves.

He'd told her that the twins were wretched men, that he did not need to hear the details to trust that whatever they had done had been unwanted, and that he knew that she respected her husband a great deal. She had thanked him. He had apologized again, directly this time, for leaving her alone with them. She had made some light comment about needing to learn to hold her own.

Wallace had responded by frowning, then saying that it shouldn't be necessary.

When he'd gone, she had shut her door and had stared at her food. The tears had come, unbidden and unwanted, but she let them - she had learned from years of grieving that it was best to allow her emotions to do as they desired, at least for a short time, before locking them up tight and getting back down to business. Then, she'd had funerals to arrange. Now, she had a marriage - a business relationship - to consider.

The tears had, eventually stopped, though the shaking had taken longer. She'd spent the night reading Ramsey's books, her only outlet. She didn't want to go to Geoff; he would be able to tell something was wrong, and she didn't want him to strike out at the Lords Pendleton. She didn't want to speak with the maids. She didn't want to stroll the streets in the late evening.

Then, nearing midnight, she'd had Wallace send for one of the clerks from Rudshore, and they had sat in the library discussing finances until nearly four in the morning.

Callista hadn't slept. She looked over the pages before her with an exhausted sense of pride.

From her bed, Babou let out a small yowl.

She looked over to the beast. The cat had followed her from the library in the grey light of the early morning. The rains had begun by then, and she seemed to want to get up higher, though no water was striking her lovely fur. She'd hopped up onto the foot of the unfamiliar bed and settled down there, and had refused to move since.

"Yes?" she asked.

Babou only yawned. According to Wallace, the beast had been stalking the house until the clerk had left. She'd gotten into the kitchen again and made a mess of things sometime after dinner, then had prowled the empty top floors for a few hours, before returning to the library to watch Callista and the clerk with her glittering, predatory eyes.

Truthfully, though, Callista felt safer with Babou watching her. She liked to imagine the cat ripping off Morgan Pendleton's face.

"I have to do this. I _want_ to do this," she told the creature. Babou flopped onto her side and stretched one great paw out, claws glinting in the lamplight. Outside, the sky was dark and heavy. The rains had broken but would be back again.

"I trust him," she said. "Even if he doesn't trust me. Foolish, I know, but- but he clearly has reason to fear his brothers, and with the fit, he wasn't thinking clearly. This will set things right. For both of us."

Babou's eyes closed to slits. The cat was clearly ready for bed.

Callista sighed. "I didn't want the money anyway," she added, softly, to herself.

Somewhere below her, she heard footsteps on the main stairs. Good- Treavor was probably awake, then. She drew herself up and quickly dressed in her new outfit, a lovely suit of ocean blue with fine trimmings. It sat oddly on her waist, and she tugged at it until she caught sight of the small envelope next to the new pair of gloves. She opened it.

_A new corset will be sent within the next three days_, it said.

Ah. That explained it.

She sighed and drew her hair back, pinned it in place, then pulled her gloves on and slid her feet into her shoes. She scooped up the pages on the vanity and made sure they were all in order, then took up a pen.

There were no marks left on her throat, she observed when she glanced in the mirror. Perhaps they could just forget anything had even happened. Lock it up tight. Move on.

Moving on had always had the best results.

The house was silent as she descended to the main floor, and turned to the dining room. Inside, she found Treavor sitting at his usual spot. He glanced up, momentarily, before scowling and looking back at his plate.

She crossed to him and set the pages and pen by his right hand.

"They should only need your signature," she said.

His shoulders tightened. He didn't look up. "Divorce papers?"

"No," she said, curtly. "The opposite. I'm giving you complete access to my bank accounts. Hopefully that will satisfy."

Treavor was silent. She turned to Wallace, who had emerged from the kitchen with a single plate of omelette.

"I'll be taking breakfast up in my room today," she said.

"Of course, ma'am."

"This came for you," Treavor said, pushing an opened envelope towards her. "For the both of us, I suppose. I- I want your opinion."

Frowning, she took up the small envelope. Inside was a card, upon which was handwritten an invitation to a party that night at Lord Brisby's estate. Both she and Treavor were invited, and she let out a relieved breath as she realized they weren't designated guests of honor or anything of the sort.

"Well?" Treavor asked.

She looked up at him. "We should probably go," she said.

"Why? So they can laugh at us?"

"So that we will know _why_ they're laughing, instead of sitting here wondering how they're mocking us in our absence," she said. "And because I would like to get started with our _life_, Treavor."

"Fine. We'll go," he said. "And I'll look at your papers. It is- very generous of you, to offer. Thank you."

"Good." She exhaled, looking back to Wallace. He shook his head, minutely, but she already knew - Treavor still wasn't in a mood to speak.

The idea that she'd let his brothers bed her had apparently hurt him deeply, even if (she hoped) he knew it to be a lie. The thought made her angry, as it had the night before. Why should she be tiptoeing around his feelings, when _she'd_ been the one in danger?

But the anger soon was obscured by exhaustion and her commitment to moving forward. She scrubbed at her eyes a moment, then nodded. "I'll leave you to your meal, then, husband."

"I'll send somebody to collect the cat today," he said when she had just reached the door. "So you at least won't have to worry about _that_ any longer."

"It won't be necessary," she said. "At least, not yet."

Treavor frowned, then turned from her, saying, "Wallace, get me a shot of brandy for my coffee."

She left without another word.

* * *

Treavor watched her go.

He was disgusted with himself. According to Wallace, she hadn't slept - and all to prepare papers signing over her entire fortune to him. Nauseous, he paged through the document.

"This gives me sole control," he said, as Wallace leaned in to dose his coffee. "_Sole control_. She's giving everything to me."

"She's frightened, sir," Wallace said.

"_I've_ frightened her."

"You certainly haven't done anything to set her at ease," the manservant returned, evenly.

Treavor cursed and covered his face with his hands.

When he'd woken from his fit, all he'd had was the anger that had dropped him to the floor in the first place, the images that had made his stomach turn and his world close in. He'd lashed out. He'd _hurt_ her. He'd ignored Wallace's support, had ignored the pain and fear in her eyes, and he'd hurt her because it was more believable to him that his brothers had somehow taken even her from him than it was that they'd assaulted her.

_Assaulted her_.

They had come into his home, they had threatened his wife, and then...

He'd been too afraid to go to her, later, too disgusted with himself, too angry. He was humiliated; the maid had seen and misinterpreted what had happened, and for all he knew, could be spreading the rumor now to every house in the city, even if his brothers wren't. He should have been there. He should have been able to protect her.

Not, he thought grimly, that he'd ever been able to protect _himself_.

"You'll bring on another fit," Wallace cautioned him.

"A do-over. I might appreciate that," he muttered. "Outsider's balls, Wallace- she must _hate_ me."

"I think, sir, that she's more worried that _you_ hate _her_. That you don't trust her, or care for her. You were vicious with her yesterday, and then you shut her out."

"I know that!" he snapped, then growled and pressed his balled-up fist to his temple. "I need to- to do something. To show her that I believe her."

"You could simply tell her."

He shook his head. "I can't- I can hardly _look_ at her, I'm so ashamed. Wallace-"

"Are you planning on signing the papers?"

Treavor frowned and looked at them. "No," he said at last. "No, I don't want _sole control_. That's what my brothers want for me. No, burn them."

Wallace was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, "She'll see it as a rejection of the only thing she feels she has to offer you, sir."

"What do you mean, _only thing_? She's frightened, she's trying to appease me. I want her to know that she doesn't _have_ to, that I'm just- that I'm just a pathetic, cowardly..."

Treavor looked up to Wallace staring at him with an arched brow.

"I should just tell her," Treavor groaned.

"And perhaps do something just for her," Wallace agreed.

"Well, until Ramsey turns a profit, I can't go out buying her trinkets, or- or trips to Serkonos," he said, pushing away from the table and standing up. "I can't buy her nice things, can't get her a good bottle of wine, and she's _afraid_ of me now, so I can't- my company is worth less than nothing."

Wallace was silent, considering the plate of untouched food at Treavor's empty seat. "Is there," he said at last, "a way that you could shield her from all of this? Protect her? Make her feel safe?"

"Aside from locking her in an attic, no, I don't see how," he spat. "If she had a title, she could hide behind that. She'd have _some_ kind of legitimacy. But without a title and without the habits that come with it... it's impossible."

"Titles can be given. Habits can be learned," Wallace said. "And surely the richest woman in Dunwall, married to a former Pendleton, is... qualified."

Treavor stopped pacing, then slowly turned on his heel. "Wallace," he said, slowly, "perhaps I should get you a position at the Academy. Your genius astounds."

Wallace's lips curled, faintly. "Thank you, sir."

"I'll do that. I'll go to the Empress today and petition. Jessamine is- is a generous woman. Perhaps..." He trailed off, running the possibilities over in his head.

"And you will do this," Wallace said, "once you have eaten and have apologized to your wife." He pulled out Treavor's chair.

Treavor shook his head. "I'll speak with her, first. Give me her breakfast, I'll take it up to her."

* * *

He tried their room first, but it was empty. He'd made it very clear, he supposed, that he didn't want her in it. As he climbed the steps to the third floor, he began rehearsing what he would say.

_I'm sorry_, it began. And there his mind gave up. It was too monumental a moment. She would turn him away, for sure. And what else could he do? Babble about wounded pride and his fears that she really did prefer his brothers, that she would ally with them against him? Confess that the thought of her with anybody else made him ragingly jealous?

Perhaps he could leave the tray outside her door, with a note. He might have to wait a long time for an audience.

But the door was open, and Callista looked up from where she sat at the vanity with a book open before her. It was one of Ramsey's books, of beautiful quality, and it was clear from the way her hand paused in turning a page that she adored it.

Her brows drew together in confusion. He must have looked ridiculous, holding a tray of food.

"I hope the maids didn't seen you like that," she said at last.

"I- don't think they did." He cleared his throat as she closed the book, then motioned to the table by the window. "I read the document you left me," he said. "And I won't be signing it."

Callista frowned. He walked past her quickly at set her breakfast down, then turned around, straightening his coat.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because I don't want to shut you out of what you have left of your family," he said, as quickly as he could. "It's yours. If you want to respond to yesterday, divorce papers would suit better. I'm sure you every reason to want to wash your hands of all this."

Callista narrowed her eyes. "I already told you that I didn't prepare divorce papers. I made my decision. And that decision means that it's _our money_," she said. "Given that, your brothers made it very clear-"

"My _brothers_ will never be allowed in this house again," he said, anger boiling out of him. He had to take a few deep breaths to control it. "What they did - to _you_ - is unforgivable."

Callista had stood from her chair, but now held very still as she regarded him, measured him. He did his best to pull his shoulders back and stand tall, his chin lifted.

"My brothers are brutes," he said. "And I was wrong to believe them, for even a second. I- yesterday, I- I treated you-" He choked on the words, and swore, turning away from her. "My brothers have... made it a game, of turning people I care about against me. They did it with Father, first, and then the cook. Wallace was the only one they never got to. Yesterday, I was afraid that- that they'd gotten to _you_, too. A childish fear. They knew it would set us at odds. They knew it would make me look- would make me _be_ an ass."

A low growl came from somewhere behind him. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder to find Babou crawling from beneath the bed.

His eyes widened, and at first he couldn't think of how to respond. His words failed him, jumbled up between his shame and his confusion. "She's in _here_?" he asked at last, taking a step away.

"She's been in here all night and morning," Callista said. "Treavor-"

The creature advanced on him, and he backpedaled, sidestepped- and watched as it hopped up onto the table and began to eat Callista's breakfast. He went pale.

Callista laughed, a startled, strange noise. It was weak, but real. He looked over at her to find her smiling and trying to cover it with one finely gloved hand. There were faint tears in her eyes. She looked relieved. Wary, but relieved, and now laughing.

"Yesterday," he said, softly, "I never asked if you were alright. Did they hurt you?"

She pulled her gaze away from Babou. Her soft expression tightened once more, and she worked her mouth a moment before saying, "I- they frightened me. Nothing more. They mostly wanted me to give you the money."

He winced. "That was my fault. I mentioned it at the Cat. Is that- _that's_ why you drew up those papers-"

She nodded. His chest ached.

"You don't have to do that."

"They said they would dissolve the marriage. From a lack of consummation," she said, then grimaced and looked at Babou again. "Is that- a real risk?"

"Given that as long as we both tell the courts that we've been to bed, they have to believe us, _no_, it's not a risk," he said, feeling another surge of rage at his brothers. "The money is yours."

Callista's lips tightened. "I want to share it. I want you to teach me business. I want it to be a joint venture."

"Then it will be a joint venture," he said, rubbing at his freshly-shaven jaw. "I won't rob you, though."

Slowly, Callista looked back at him. "... Thank you."

"Now, I- I have that meeting to go to," he said, glancing to the door. "But hopefully I'll be back in time to accompany you to Brisby's. Wallace will know where to find me, if you need anything, and I'll give Creighton strict orders not to let anybody in. Even a member of the Watch should be able to get _that_ one right."

Callista nodded.

"And in the future," he said, then took a deep breath. "In the future, I'll make sure to- protect you from my battles. My brothers hurt you to get to me. They're _brutes_."

"They are," she agreed. "And you- have nothing to fear. I wouldn't betray you like that."

"I- I know," he stammered. "Believe me, I know. I just- I just forgot. After a fit-"

"Wallace mentioned there could be confusion."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. That's- true enough. Hopefully, though, that will be the last of those fits for some time." He shifted uncomfortably, his collar feeling far too tight. Behind him, Babou let out a pleased noise from her perch on the table. He turned to look at her. She'd demolished the sausages and was licking at the buttered toast.

Treavor cleared his throat and said, "Your should- you should ask Wallace to make you something else to eat."

"I can handle getting myself fed," she said. "Your meeting- it's with Ramsey again, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"I'd like to come."

He couldn't help but grow pale, and he edged towards the door. "Ah, no- you should stay here. Sleep. Wallace said you didn't get much sleep."

"If we're going to go into business-"

"This is more of a personal meeting," Treavor said, quickly. "And at his club. It's not an appropriate place... perhaps next time."

She frowned.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Chapter 10_**

The halls of Dunwall Tower were quite different from the halls of Pendleton manor, or even of Parliament. The architecture was old and distantly unfamiliar, its perfect, straight lines and the weight of its stone somehow more overwhelming than all the brick and metal below it in the streets. His heart had hammered in his chest as he'd sat in the small courtesy ship as the water in the lock had risen.

Now, he stared at the wide, expansive steps.

This could have been, possibly should have been, accomplished at Parliament, but his visit the previous day had been nothing but frustrating. His former allies had been less than interested in assisting him with business matters now that his vote could no longer be traded. His vote had never been worth as much as his brothers', but he'd achieved some level of notoriety for the way he could, when at his best, present himself before the court.

He hoped those skills would serve him in good stead now. He climbed the steps two by two, straightening his jacket, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He had never been in these halls _alone_ before. He'd never seen so many officers of the Watch in one place, and as he reached the great landing, he saw two military men go by.

"This way, my lord," his guide, a young woman not more than eighteen, said, beckoning. Her gaze was not fixed as low as the maids at Pendleton Manor, but she was still poised and practiced. It was refreshing. He followed, allowing her to take him to the waiting chamber where he would have to sit until Jessamine deigned to give him a private audience.

If she even would.

Two months ago, she would have seen him - if not in an instant - within the hour. As it was, he sat in one of the plush armchairs and tugged at his cravat.

At least the apology had gone well. _That_ was completed. It had been embarrassing and stressful, but Callista had seemed to understand.

She _always_ seemed to understand.

If only they'd both had a little less to drink that first night, he was sure their marriage would be perfect. She understood him in a way only Wallace had ever seemed to, except that she did it without the knowledge and experience Wallace had. She seemed to trust the best in him.

No- that wasn't entirely true. She'd tried to give him all of her fortune. She'd been jealous of his trip to the Cat. But for all those moments where she'd grown guarded and hostile, he found he couldn't blame her. He'd given it back in equal measure.

He plucked a cigar from a box at his elbow. The Empress was good to her petitioners. The Cullero was a little slice of ecstasy, and he endeavored to focus all his thoughts on his enjoyment of it. Soon, though, they began to drift again. Tonight, he would be seen in public with his wife. She would not be as finely dressed as she deserved, and that might draw comments, but these things took time. He would be seen with her, he would be _proud_ of her, and he might even dance with her.

His lips curled.

But as the hours passed, he began to shift and fidget again. The maid came back several times to check on him, asking him if he needed brandy or a small snack. His stomach ached; he felt ravenous, desperate, hungry for something beyond his skipped breakfast. He'd asked for lunch, and it was brought to him.

He ate, his stomach tense and twisting. The food was impeccable, better than anything served at his house, and he closed his eyes and savored it. He took his time, killing minutes with the careful devouring of poached eggs and grilled eel, delicious Serkonan sauces and verdant Morley produce.

But the minutes turned to long hours. The room he was in had a clock, but no windows. Eventually, the maid came back to light a small fire in the hearth, and to apologize once more for how long it was taking. He almost rose and left, but then she added,

"The Empress is preparing. It will only be a little while longer."

Another hour passed. He stared at the clock, jaw tense, brow beading with small droplets of sweat.

At last the maid returned with a guard. Treavor rose. He straightened his cravat and smoothed his pomaded hair back, and hoped that he didn't smell too much of cigars, or the brandy he'd barely touched (due onlt to great force of will). He followed his two guides down hall after hall until, finally, they opened the door to a small receiving room.

"Mr. Treavor Curnow, Your Highness," the maid said. The guard said nothing. Treavor swallowed and stepped forward, then bowed.

Jessamine Kaldwin stood by a bank of great windows that looked out over the bay of the Wrenhaven, lit by the failing daylight and a few dimmed lamps. Behind her, almost blending in with the finery and the shadows, was her protector, Corvo. Treavor had only met the man a few times, and had spoken to him only once, when his brothers had been tossed out of a state function for allowing their brutishness to bleed into the polite side of society.

Corvo didn't acknowledge him. His gaze seemed fixed elsewhere, but Treavor suspected that was an illusion. He cut a quiet, imposing figure, with his neatly trimmed dark hair, his shadowed eyes, and his fine coat.

Jessamine, by contrast, turned and looked at him with a warm smile.

"I hear congratulations are in order," the Empress said. "How is married life finding you, Mr. Curnow?" Her voice was smooth and pleasant, well-controlled but not tight.

He wanted to loosen his cravat again. He felt as if he were suddenly suffocating.

"Well," he said, his voice catching slightly. He cleared his throat. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Your Highness."

Jessamine smiled, then waved the guard and the maid away. The door shut behind him.

"Do sit," she said, motioning to a seat.

"Begging your pardon - I would prefer to stand." As a younger man, the required deference to the Empress had grated on him. A _Pendleton_ should have had to defer to no one. But it came easily enough, now; he _needed_ her, and instead of inspiring anger and frustration, it drove him to be obsequious.

His brothers needed to learn the skill.

"Of course," Jessamine said, then waved him closer. Treavor came to stand a respectful distance apart from her, his gaze darting to Corvo, who still appeared to be looking elsewhere. "How is your wife?" Jessamine asked, pulling his attention back to her.

"Very well, Your Highness," he responded. "She is- a remarkable woman."

"She's Captain Curnow's... daughter?" Jessamine asked.

"Niece," Corvo corrected, his voice low and rumbling. "He has no children of his own."

"Of course," Jessamine said with a magnanimous smile, not minding the correction in the slightest.

Treavor swallowed. His brothers thought she was too kind, too gentle, too weak. He'd heard others say the same. And yet he feared her, and the self-confidence and poise that made her able to yield without ceding an inch of control.

"So, what brings you here?" Jessamine said with that same smile in place. She turned her head and looked at him directly, instead of at his faint reflection.

He cleared his throat again, smoothed his coat. "I would- I would like to petition for a noble title, Your Highness. For my house."

Jessamine didn't respond at first. Instead, she left him standing by the window as she went to pour herself a glass of what looked like fine Tyvian red wine. She did not pour a glass for him.

He felt very small, and very vulnerable. Had she already rejected him out of hand?

She contemplated the wine, took a small sip, and then said, "Truth be told, I expected you to be here asking for a title far sooner." Her lips curled. Her eyes glittered. "It must be very difficult, to go from the renown of being a Pendleton to being just a Curnow."

Treavor licked his dry lips. "There have been- adjustments. But I'm not asking for myself, Your Highness."

"You're not?"

He felt heat creeping into his face, and he turned to stare out at the setting sun.

He was going to be late. The thought made his heart sink. He could only hope that she would understand, that Wallace would come up with some acceptable explanation.

"No," he said, voice soft. "I'm asking for Callista."

"Did she send you?"

"She doesn't know I'm here," he said, grimacing. "I'm supposed to be at a business meeting."

"There's quite a lot to becoming nobility, Treavor Curnow, beyond simply having a title," the Empress said. He watched in the glass as she drew nearer. "You know that quite well, I'm sure. They'll eat her alive."

"They already are," he said, looking down. "She deserves some kind of legitimacy. And with the greatest fortune of Dunwall in her possession- it seems only reasonable."

Jessamine considered him for a moment, then sipped at her wine and turned away, pacing the length of the room with easy, confident steps. "I must say, I didn't expect this from you," she said. "A _Pendleton_, advocating for a commoner to be titled? It sounds like the beginning of a joke. Or the punchline. Wanting your old status back, I can imagine, but casting it as a benefit to your new wife-"

"She needs this," he said, voice strained.

"They will pick apart her every move. They will all know she was not born of noble blood."

"But she will have some measure of protection that she doesn't have now," he countered.

"That protection doesn't come from a title, Mr. Curnow. It comes from having a long legacy to beat your opponent over the head with. Isn't that right, Corvo?"

Corvo hummed assent.

"It's very kind of you to want to give her something that you yourself value, but-"

"Then do it to gain her vote in Parliament," he said, turning around. He didn't want to hear her list of every reason having a title wouldn't help Callista. A part of him _did_ want this mainly for himself. He wanted to be Lord Curnow, married to Lady Curnow, and he wanted to show all his former peers that they were, in every way, pathetic and beneath him _despite_ their upbringings.

To be confronted with it, though, made him shake and tense. No, he had to change the tone.

"She's _new blood_. She will have no allegiances at first, and those she builds will be based on- based on her experiences, her life before all this." Two months ago, he wouldn't have thought a common-born girl could have had anything of value to contribute to Parliament. But _Callista_ would, certainly. She was quick and intelligent and set apart.

Jessamine canted her head, considering.

"And it would be _her_ vote, not mine," he continued. "And I would not allow her to be bullied. Or bought. I know your policies, Your Highness- she fits them perfectly. She would be an ally. _Your_ ally."

"You're asking a great deal of me," she said, and something in her tone made him step back.

"I would not ask you if it wasn't important."

"Wouldn't you," she said, flatly. He held his breath. She considered her wine glass, then set it down, barely touched. "You know, I have half a mind to tell you to petition me in public court, to test how committed you are to this - but that would only hurt your new wife. I'll consider your proposal, Mr. Curnow. We'll talk again, later."

His shoulders sagged. He took a few deep breaths. "I- thank you, Your Highness. It is much appreciated." He'd send gifts to her, he decided, and he'd come prepared with a stronger argument next time. Yes, this alliance in Parliament could be the ticket. He would come without being so frightened next time. He would come with confidence.

"Get home to your family, then," Jessamine said.

Her lips curled into that magnanimous smile again.

Treavor retreated, feeling as if he'd won a tenuous victory.

* * *

Callista stood alone at the edge of main receiving hall of Brisby's estate. It was a small space, smaller than anything in Pendleton Hall or the Boyles' estate, but she estimated it was about half the size of the entire first floor of her house. Brisby, as far as she could tell, was not a powerful or a rich lord, and his name didn't seem to carry as much history as Pendleton, Boyle, or even Shaw. He could still make her feel small, however, and lost, even as she watched people mill and talk and pluck up delicacies from the great tables laid out with roast large fish, sweet cheeses, wines and punches.

Treavor had failed to come back from his meeting in time. Callista had considered staying home entirely, but Wallace had warned her that to do so might be the worst possible choice. People would talk either way, but accepting an invitation only to not show- that suggested many other stories. She _had, _at least, persuaded him to let her wait an hour past when she should have left.

No word had come from her husband.

She hadn't had the heart or courage to ask Wallace where, exactly, the meeting was being held. Treavor had been evasive, and determined to go alone; that told her enough. She had done her best, as she sat for one of the maids to reset her hair, not to picture him at the Cat, talking to his brothers or- otherwise.

Still, it made the most sense. Callista's jaw tightened again, and her gaze dropped. She had her arms around her waist once more. She made herself relax, hands dropping grudgingly to her sides.

The day had been a trial. She'd started the day steady, sure of herself and her tactics, with the memory of the day before firmly locked away. Treavor had dashed it all to the Void the moment he'd entered her room, of course. She remembered his fumbling apology with a certain amount of relief and happiness, but it was accompanied by reminders of his brothers. _Brutes_, he'd called them. And while she'd thought that his brothers had tortured him as a child, to know that they'd turned _everybody_ in his life against them-

It made her sick to remember sitting with them, seeing them alone at all, and sicker still to think of how she'd gone limp, resigned to letting them do as they pleased. She _should_ have shouted. It would have not only protected her, but protected _Treavor_, as well.

She reminded herself, yet again, that this really had nothing to do with her. The twins were not _at_ the party. Neither was Treavor. Only she was - and she was prepared to move forward, no matter where her husband was or what he was doing. _She_ possessed the Curnow fortune. _She_ ran her household. _She_ had come to this function as she'd agreed to do.

She tucked away the lingering distress and panic that had followed her ever since that meeting in the library, and focused on the party once more.

The Boyle women were here, somewhere; they'd greeted her in passing when she'd arrived. Brisby, who had greeted her with an amused little snicker, was following after one of them, trying to get her attention. Somewhere, Lord Shaw was without his wife. Esma had confided that Georgette detested Brisby and refused to attend parties here.

There was a rumor that the Empress might be in attendance, but Callista doubted it.

She'd stay half an hour longer. She had arrived for appearance's sake, nothing else. She had spoken with those she knew. She had tasted the feast. Now she did her best to appear observant, judging, as if that would help her belong.

She was inspecting the plum suit of a woman with short, curled brown hair and a large gemmed pin at the hollow of her neck when somebody cleared his throat beside her.

Half-hoping to see her husband, she turned. An unfamiliar man looked back at her, handsome and attentive, holding out a glass to her.

"You must be Callista Curnow," he said.

"I am," she said, taking the glass. It was filled with fine Tyvian red. "I don't believe we've met, my lord."

His lips curled. He had glittering dark eyes, fine lashes, and rich chestnut hair brushed back from a high hairline and subtly pomaded. He was several inches taller than Treavor, and broader through the shoulders, a little thicker through the waist. His nose was hooked.

He was the sort of man she may have picked for a husband, if she'd had any choice. As it was, she kept her distance, unconsciously folding in on herself by degrees. A Dunwall lord was, two times out of three, a brutish wretch.

"No, although you've met my wife," he said, smoothly, ignoring her clear withdrawl and taking up a spot beside her where he could watch the room. "My name is Montgomery Shaw. Your husband and I are old friends."

_Ah_. She quickly tried to shift her evaluation one way or another. She came up with nothing except her wariness around the man's wife.

"I've heard much about you," she said, though really she'd heard only bare details. "I must thank you, by the way, for your generous wedding gift - I'm afraid I would have looked even more out of place if your tailor didn't work so quickly."

"That was Georgette's doing; I'm still contemplating what to send over to your house," he said. His smile, she realized with a sinking feeling, was not kind. It was controlled, and _pleased_, but not kind.

She sipped at her wine.

"Where _is_ your husband, Mrs. Curnow?" Shaw asked.

The wine conspired with her embarrassment to make her cheeks flush. "At a business meeting," she said, then took another, larger, drink of wine. "With Jack Ramsey, if I'm not mistaken."

"Jack Ramsey," Shaw mused. "Strange. I thought he and Miss White both were intending to come to the party. I suppose plans could have changed, but I know I saw Adelle- _ah_, yes, there's Jack." He lifted his glass with a smug little grin at a man across the room.

Callista followed his gaze. The other man lifted his glass in turn, before returning his attention back to his lady companion. _You don't know that's Jack Ramsey_, she told herself, firmly. Shaw could have been trying to trip her up.

Or, of course, Treavor might never have gone to see him at all, and just learned not to tell her he was going to the Cat. Her expression calcified, frozen somewhere between polite interest and exhausted frustration.

"Well, at any rate," Shaw said, pushing away from the wall to face her again, "I'm sure he'll be here eventually. Meanwhile, _you_ seem to be avoiding the party."

"I'm sure you know," she said, picking each word with care, "that I'm not entirely used to this sort of thing yet."

He considered her for a moment, then held out his hand. "Then let me be your guide, until Treavor gets here. The two of us are both abandoned, after all."

She studied his outstretched hand a moment, trying to decide if this was a trap. She glanced up to find him watching her expectantly, a wolf's grin edging out behind his polite smile. Yes, it _was_ probably a trap. But he might also be ready for a refusal, and as long as he didn't abjectly humiliate her, she could use him to better blend in.

Callista finished her glass of wine, set it on the edge of a nearby small table, and took his hand.

He let go of it soon after, as they meandered through the halls of the party. He nodded and smiled and said a few words of greeting to most everybody they passed. A few times, he introduced her. Callista would, in turn, smile and incline her head, and tell anybody who asked that Treavor was caught up in business for the evening. It was a sturdier lie in its vagueness.

Once, Shaw slipped an arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper, "You're getting the hang of it." He released her immediately after, before she could fully stiffen or push him away.

Brisby had kitted out one of the squarer rooms as a dance hall. A few couples moved in imitations of Serkonan dances on the polished wood floor, and Callista paused to watch them. Esma Boyle was moving alongside a tall man with a beak of a nose and a shining, bald head.

Behind her, Shaw huffed a laugh. "I didn't know Burrows would _be_ here. Brisby must be after something. I wonder- is Esma trying to _help_ him, or hurt him?"

She glanced back. His eyes were now on her, not the dancing couple.

"I wouldn't dare to speculate," she said.

He chuckled. "Just another thing to learn," he said, though his eyes glittered with some kind of interest or pleasure. He took a step towards her, then held out his hand again. "Shall we dance, Mrs. Curnow? To pass the time?"

She glanced back at the floor. Geoff was a quarter Serkonan, and though in many ways he tried to hide it, there were some aspects of his heritage that had a sort of value. She remembered dancing with him as a little girl. Enough of her students had engaged dance instructors that she had learned the finer steps from natural observation.

If Shaw was hoping for her to demure or to embarrass herself, he wouldn't get it.

"A dance would be lovely," she said, looking back at him. She reached to take his hand, but he had already stepped in, and she stiffened as he settled a hand on the small of her back.

"Follow my lead," Shaw said, voice growing low, and she swallowed down a retort as he backed her towards the floor.

His _leading_ was rough, almost violent, and he was clearly of the opinion that she would have no idea what she was doing. When he would jerk her in close against him, she was forced to place her hands on his chest to keep herself steady. He took her hand at times, to whirl her out into a spin, and she fought to keep her poise, her grace, in the face of the sharp snap of his shoulders, the yank of his hand against her wrist.

Once, she looked up from their dance to find a few people watching. Some were whispering behind lifted hands. She flushed brightly.

Halfway through the song, she finally, determinedly, stepped on Shaw's toes and leaned in to whisper, "I know what I'm doing, my lord."

"Of course you do," he returned, and laughed, but at least his grip on her loosened.

He was not a pleasant dance partner, even with his fine cologne and the warmth of his hands. They didn't fit in the slightest. He refused to anticipate her movements, and she could not influence his pace or tone. She held her own as best she could, and when, at last, the music ended, she pulled away from him and stepped back. She sketched a faint curtsy, perhaps a little too deeply for her new status.

"Had enough?" Shaw asked, as if wounded.

She opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, she heard Treavor's voice, shrill over the beginning strains of a new song. He was snapping at somebody. She couldn't make out the words, but she turned towards the sound of his voice, and found him pushing through the small crowd that had gathered. He stalked to her side, only remembering halfway to slow down and lift his chin up.

"Shaw," he said, curtly.

"_Mr. Curnow_," Shaw said, smirking. "Good to see you at last. We were all wondering when you'd show up."

"I was in a _meeting_," he snipped.

Callista found herself inspecting him for love bites. Something inside of her relaxed when she saw none. His hair wasn't disheveled, he didn't seem the slightest bit drunk, and he was wearing his best suit.

"Did it go well?" Callista asked, and he shot her a withering glance.

Callista took a step back.

"You look riled, Treavor," Shaw said, with a small frown. "Is something the matter?"

"I'll tell you what's the matter, you sack of _shit_," Treavor hissed. "The entire party is talking about you and my _wife_, because apparently you two have been whispering with each other and _dancing_ all night."

Shaw's expression turned hard. Callista's eyes widened.

"That's not-" Callista began.

"I know it's not," he said, with a quick look to her. "But it's appearances that matter, and _Lord Shaw_ is quite aware of that. So if you'd kindly get your hands off my wife and go sulk off to whatever cave you crawled out of this morning, _Montgomery_, I think we can call this settled."

"Perhaps," Shaw said, "you shouldn't tell your wife lies about where you're spending your time, and actually accompany her to public functions. It's your own damn fault, you coward," he sneered. But he did turn to Callista, and bow to her. "If you ever need an escort again, Callista-"

She saw Treavor stiffen as she felt her hackles rise. "I'd appreciate it," she said, voice chilling, "if you didn't pretend to intimacy. It's Mrs. Curnow."

He bared his teeth a moment, then straightened. "Of course, Mrs. Curnow," he said. "Though I hope you believe me when I say I only had your best interests at heart."

His comment was undercut by the way he narrowed his eyes, looking at her as if she were a Pandyssian rat that had scampered over his shoe.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Curnow. Mrs. Curnow," he said, and then he left them, stalking off at a fast clip.

Callista turned back to Treavor, slowly. "I didn't mean-"

"I _know_ you didn't," he said, gaze darting from her to everybody watching. "Yet another vulture trying to use you against me. I hate them. I hate them _all_."

"Where were you?" she asked.

He went very still.

"I know you weren't with Ramsey," she said, softly, "because he's here. Shaw knows that I thought you were with him. Everybody else I just told you were at a business function. But Treavor-"

"I was at Dunwall Tower," he said. He looked at her a moment, then drew himself up. "I am petitioning the Empress to grant you a title and a seat in Parliament. As... a wedding present. And because you deserve it."

The noise of the hall, and the quick fiddle strains of the song currently playing, died away.

"You-"

"It took hours to see her, and perhaps I should have left sooner and tried another day, but she's considering it. She's thinking it over. I assured her that with your background, you'd be a valuable supporter for her more- _populist_ notions, and I think- I think that might-"

She took his hand, and he stopped speaking.

"Can you dance?" she asked.

His cheeks flushed, and he looked her over, every inch of her, before nodding.

"Yes," he murmured, voice much softer. "Yes, I can. Will you dance with me, Callista?"

* * *

He kissed her the moment they were alone in their car, speeding back towards their townhouse far away from the estate district. It had been nearly impossible to wait through the remaining half hour they spent at the party. He'd wanted to kiss her the moment he found her with Shaw, had wanted to take her in his arms and _prove_ that she was his.

But he hadn't had to. She'd danced with him. She'd made it very clear to everybody watching that she'd chosen him over Shaw. It had made his head spin and his heart quicken, and he'd managed to nourish himself on how her waist felt under his hands, how she breathed quick against his mouth when they came together, how gracefully - if out of practice - she'd moved. He'd been able to wait.

Now, though, with her alone and in the dim light of the car, he kissed her wildly. She let out a small laugh and looped her arms around him. There was wine on her tongue, but not much, not enough to deaden her good cheer.

"I'm so glad," she murmured, when he drew away to kiss at her cheek and jaw, "that we're _out_ of that place."

He grunted his assent. The car shuddered and jolted beneath them. Her hands found his waist beneath his coat, and he wanted to collapse with relief.

"Lord Shaw was-"

"I don't want to talk about him," Treavor mumbled against her throat. Beneath him, Callista shuddered and squirmed. He mouthed at her pulse, hoping to get her to make some pleased little noise.

"I- I just want to understand-"

"He was trying to imply that he was cuckolding me," he said. "Simple as that."

"But his own wife-"

He pulled away, scowling. "The _idea_, I'm sure, was that he was proving he _could_ cuckold me if he wanted - but of course he'd never want to, because you're just an accidental heiress, and always just a governess. He doesn't get it. None of them do."

"Get what?"

"That you're not _just_ anything," he said, then glanced away. He swallowed, thickly. "I hope they all saw that, when _we_ danced. I think- I think we looked rather good together."

"We moved well together," she said, and he flushed.

"You really think so?" he breathed, looking back at her.

She was breathing heavily, and she hadn't let go of his waist. It was hard, looking at her, not to immediately fall back into her arms and kiss her breathless all over again.

"I do," she said, then shifted, sitting up a little more. "I- but I need you to be honest with me. _Were_ you at the Cat today? At any point? Was it really just-"

"It was just the Tower," he assured her, covering one of her hands with his. He drew her hand from his waist and lifted it to his lips. Shaking, he kissed the knuckles of her glove. "If- if it makes you feel any better, I couldn't go back to the Cat if I wanted to. And I don't."

"Why not?" she asked, canting her head.

"Because- I have you to come home to," he said.

Her lips parted, and she _smiled_. He kissed her knuckles again, then froze as she shook her head.

"No- I meant, why can't you go?"

He flushed. "Ah. Well, your uncle has declared me unwelcome. Apparently, the contingent of the Watch that provides security for the Cat largely works for him, and they're all very protective of you."

Treavor held his breath as Callista seemed to turn the idea over, then flinched as she began to laugh. It wasn't like Waverly's laughter, though, or Montgomery's - it was genuine and surprised. It took a few deep inhales to still his initial, prickling response, and another few to smile at her, weakly.

"But- but it doesn't matter," he added, softly, "because I don't want to go back. My brothers are often there, as are other people I don't want to see, and I know you don't like hearing this, but- but I'm really _not_ interested in the girls there, now."

"Things could always change," she said, trying to be serious through her giggles.

"Yes, well," he said, sniffing a little, "even if it does, your uncle will have me skinned, so I think you can trust in my fidelity even if you won't take my word on it."

The car slid to a halt with the high squealing noise of its brakes. Callista leaned in quickly to kiss him one more time, then nudged him back so they could both get up. "We're home," she said, as the doors slid open and the lights brightened. He watched her climb from the car, straightening her clothing, then followed after her.

Creighton opened the door before they even reached the top step, greeting them with his usual smile. "A few more wedding presents arrived while you were out, Mrs. Curnow," he said as they stepped into the foyer.

"I'll look at them in the morning," she said, tugging off her gloves as she spoke. Treavor found himself watching the unveiling of her long fingers.

"And a letter arrived," Creighton said, going to the small desk they'd had installed by his chair.

"Tomorrow, Creighton," she said.

"I think you'll want to open this one tonight, ma'am," he said, pulling it from a small drawer and holding it out.

Treavor's breath caught. The envelope bore the golden swan crest of the Kaldwins, and the paper was the same rich blue as the empress's banners.

Callista took it in one bare, slender hand, and turned it over once, twice. She glanced up at Treavor.

"It's probably just a confirmation of my petition," Treavor said. "Still-"

"We'll take a look upstairs," she said, and smiled at Creighton. "Lock up and take the rest of the night off, then."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"And where's Wallace?" Treavor asked, coming to stand beside Callista, fighting the urge to loop his arm around her.

"More lessons with the staff, sir," Creighton said. "Should I fetch him?"

"No," Treavor said. "Just let him know he can take the evening off as well, if he likes."

"Of course, sir."

Creighton looked at them expectantly.

"Oh," Callista said. "The cat?"

"Has taken over the top three floors of the house and stolen the goose for tomorrow's dinner," Creighton reported, solemnly.

Callista let out an amused sigh. "No more injuries, though?"

"No more injuries. She seems to be settling in."

Callista nodded, then looked to Treavor. She quirked a brow and held up the letter a moment, before clasping it and her gloves in both hands at the level of her hips.

"Well, good evening, Creighton," Treavor said, and after a few more circuitous pleasantries, Treavor finally got to the stairs with his wife.

When they reached the study, Callista went over to her desk. Treavor went to the sideboard to pour what could potentially become a celebratory drink, then thought better of it and came to join her. He watched as she worked his letter opener, made of Pendleton silver, through the top of the envelope and pulled out a few pieces of fine, heavy paper.

Callista's eyes scanned across the first page, then the second. She kept both in her hands, where he couldn't read them. He held his breath.

Her lips parted. She took a few long, shaking breaths. Then she looked up at him.

"Hello, Lord Curnow," she whispered.

"_Lady_ Curnow," he returned, voice strangled, before he leaned in and kissed her.

_A few hours_. That was all it had taken. Clearly, Jessamine hadn't been as opposed to the idea as she'd let it appear. He hummed against Callista's lips - _Lady Callista Curnow, member of Parliament_ - and stumbled, trying to get around the desk to her. They met halfway, her hands going to his thin cheeks, holding him in place while she peppered kisses along his nose and brow.

"You'll make a fine lady," he whispered, and she laughed.

He took her hands in his, drawing them from his face, and led her back towards their bedroom.

"We'll get a nicer home than this," he said, "but we'll keep this one, too. We'll- we'll buy every house your family ever lived in, and keep them all in state."

"We could have done that before," she said. "The title didn't come with a _purse_."

"I- I know, but," he said, grinning as they stepped into their room, "now we can do it _properly_."

"Instead of doing it all wrong?" she asked, and he couldn't help his own hiccuping laugh.

He pushed her towards the vanity and sat her down on the bench, hands moving quickly to the clasps on her jacket. She didn't protest, only returned the favor, her hands making quick work of his cravat and waistcoat. The whole mess seemed to come easily, this time. Their clothing fell away, and Treavor felt himself harden, and Callista kissed him without retching once. Soon he was on his knees, rolling down her stockings, looking up at the naked expanse of her legs and hips, her chest covered only by the undershirt he had deliberately left in place despite her questions.

He kissed her knee and she responded by pressing her thighs together. He looked up to find her blushing (it extended to her ears), watching him.

"There's something you should know about me," he said, trying to soothe her nerves. He stroked the tops of her thighs, smoothed his palms over them.

"That you know what you're doing?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Aside- from that. You should know that- that I'm a coward, Callista."

She frowned. "I don't think you are."

"I am," he said, kissing her knees again. He watched her the whole time. "I'm afraid of a lot of things, and not brave enough to do much about them. I'd rather give up and pretend I never cared. It's always been easier. But..."

He swallowed, unsure if he could continue.

Callista's frown softened, though, and she parted her legs. "I understand," she said.

He made a strangled sound, and focused on kissing at her inner thighs. He listened to her sharp intake of breath, felt her tensing as he kissed up and up, until he could kiss and lap at her cunt. One of her hands slid into his hair, the other going to the vanity behind her to steady her. She was warm and wet and he groaned, closing his eyes and losing himself in the taste of her.

He _was_ a coward - and this was easier than talking. He had a hundred thousand things he wanted to say to her, wanted to ask her, wanted to hear _her_ say to him, but it was easier at that moment to make her arch and whimper, to dip his tongue into her entrance and tease at her until her fingers tightened against his scalp. His hands spread against her legs, keeping her open to him, until it was clear she'd do it herself. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist, and dragged her closer to the edge of the bench, tilting her hips up.

She draped her legs over his shoulders, and he sighed at the feeling of her bare legs against his naked back. _This_ was how it should have been, that first night, but he could forgive them both for forgetting it. In a way, he was almost glad for the past week; it had taught him more about her, made him more certain that he wanted her and that he was lucky that she would have him at all.

And it had taught him that he could make her laugh, and cry, and _feel_, and he wasn't sure when he'd last been able to do that to anybody.

When she cried out and he felt her twitch and spasm against his mouth, he lapped at her a few last times, then kissed her thighs and her quivering belly. He stretched up along her and kissed her lips, and moaned as she kissed him back, suckling on his tongue. She slipped her legs from where they'd dropped to the crooks of his elbows and stood, hands leaving his scalp and the vanity to close around his waist and draw him up with her.

She was the one to push him back towards their bed, to ease him down on the mattress, to make short work of his stockings and breeches. She climbed atop him and bent to kiss him. Her hand closed around his cock and he hissed, jerking up into her touch. She kissed the noise away, kissed him until her hand slid easily along his length and he moved in time with it.

When at last she drew her hips over his and sank down onto his cock with a few easy rolls of her hips, he was already nearly gone. He stared up at her in the dim light that spilled in from the windows, and wished only that he'd had the sense to turn the lamps on. His hands slid up her waist, under her shirt and over her skin, still marked faintly where the corset had compressed her flesh, until he could grip her breasts and knead at the soft flesh, fingers dancing over her nipples.

Callista, now full of him, reached up and tugged her shirt over her head.

_You're very beautiful_, he thought, but he could only whine as she began to move, one of her hands planted on his pale chest, the other bracing her weight on the mattress. She hunched as she moved, the same forward-shouldered curve when she was nervous, but he could see the strength of her spine despite it. She was certain, and controlled, and she worked her hips a in delicious rhythm that had him gripping her hips and pumping up into her out of time, unable to think straight.

Images of her with his brothers, with Shaw, floated to the surface, and when they came, he snapped his hips up into her. He drew her down along him, and kissed her with all the possessiveness in him. She returned it, and the fear melted away again, replaced with the certainty that she had chosen _him_.

He drew sounds from her, needy sounds, desperate sounds, and once or twice his name. In turn, she made him babble, and beg, and whimper, his hips jumping, his fingers digging into her thin frame. She hunched and kissed at his mouth, his throat, his collarbones, and he dragged his hands along her back, her waist, counting her ribs and memorizing the flex of her body.

When he came, it was with a wild shout, and the rushing relief that this was his _wife_, and that she would have him.

She rode out his orgasm, grinding her hips down against his, jerking and twitching and squeezing him dry. He slipped one hand between them in his haze, and fumbled between her legs. She seized his wrist and pulled his hand harder against him, and he watched as she brought herself off. Her body went rigid when it happened, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her eyes shut.

_You're very beautiful_, he thought, and he must have said it out loud because her lips parted in a breathless rush of a laugh. Her body loosened, and she leaned forward, then settled down on top of him.

With a grunt, he rolled them both over, and nuzzled at her throat.

"Will you still have me, then?" he mumbled against her hammering pulse.

She laughed again. He liked the sound, just like he enjoyed seeing a smile on her lips. He fancied they were more common these days.

"Gladly," she murmured, and he smiled.

* * *

One week later, Callista tried to sit still while Babou rammed her head into her knee. Treavor's hand on Callista's shoulder tightened.

"Is it _really_ necessary for the cat to be in the damn portrait?" he hissed through his fixed expression.

Anton Sokolov looked up from his canvas, glowering. "Yes, it is _necessary_," the Royal Physician said. "Without her, the portrait will lose much of its strength."

"Well does she have to be _here, _right now?" Treavor tried again.

Babou let out a low rumble, then tried once more to stretch out on her belly, instead of sitting upright. Once more she was stopped by the tight length of jeweled leash Callista held in one hand.

The cat, she was sure, was going to tear open her calf soon.

"If you don't want your portrait painted, Lord Curnow, then you can certainly take the cat and go."

Treavor huffed in frustration.

"Perhaps we could break for lunch?" Callista asked, glancing up at her husband.

"_Lady Curnow_, I would appreciate it if you didn't move," Sokolov snapped, then growled and tossed down his paintbrush. "But fine. Yes. Break for lunch." He turned from the canvas and reached for a tumbler of Tyvian brandy.

Treavor's hand flexed on her shoulder once, before he released her and stepped back, rolling his shoulders. Callista stood, then tried to lead Babou over to her cage. The cat protested, growling and tugging back.

"Are you sure," Treavor asked, frowning at the creature, "that your uncle is willing to take care of her while we're gone?"

"I've asked him five times. Yes, he's willing," Callista sighed. "She likes him, anyway. She's much better behaved when he's around."

Treavor watched a moment longer, then went to the tables set out for lunch. Babou immediately oriented to him, eyes widening as he picked up a link of sausage. Treavor lifted a brow, then casually strolled towards the cage.

Babou growled and dragged Callista over to it.

Callista let the beast crawl into the metal box as Treavor dropped the morsel in, unhooking the leash with practiced skill and closing the door on the swishing tail. She exhaled deeply in relief, then turned to Treavor.

"Four more days," he reminded her. "And then the open ocean."

"Yes, but before then we have to go tour the slaughterhouse with Ramsey, I have two days in Parliament, and there's the matter of _packing_ and-"

Treavor glanced around, then leaned in and kissed her silent.

"Four more days," he said, with a smug grin as he pulled away. "And _then_ you won't have to worry about a single thing for several months, except where you want to go next."

"Are you sure we can afford to be gone so long?" she asked.

"We can afford many things. And," he added, wrinkling his nose, "I'd appreciate getting away from my brothers for a bit. They're taking the Royal Protector's upcoming trip as proof that they're welcome in court again."

Callista shook her head, and made her way over to the table. One week had passed since Brisby's party, and she wasn't sure she'd had a chance to breathe since. Everything was moving far too fast. A meeting with the Empress and several other nobles sympathetic to Jessamine's policies had revealed that the rumors of a plague were not exaggerated. Treavor had gone ahead and booked their tour of the Isles without asking if the timing was appropriate. Her uncle had apparently been asked to sail with Corvo and several other dignitaries to ask other cities if they were familiar with the illness cropping up in the poorer districts of Dunwall, and had _declined_ the honor because Callista had already asked him to take care of the ocelot that was now hissing and spitting as it realized it was trapped again.

And the Boyle sisters had purchased a sitting with Anton Sokolov for her wedding present, and to congratulate her on her peerage.

She sank into her seat and struggled not to cover her face with her hands and groan in exhaustion. No, the trip _was_ necessary, if ill-timed. She needed space, and the open sea, and time to sit with her husband. The journey wouldn't be _so_ long, and maybe when she returned, the plague would be sorted.

Treavor sat down across from her. He poured them tea, then added a few drops of whiskey from the flask in his pocket. He lifted one cup.

"To us," he said.

She smiled despite her exhaustion and lifted her own. "To us," she agreed.

**THE END**


End file.
